The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (17 page)

How ridiculous.  The official histories tended to gloss over the
end of the Blooded Emperors, granted, but it was clearly recorded that much of the reason for the change in title was the fact that the days of expansion were over.  Heady as it had been to think of a limitless, vast territory under Northern control, they had unfortunately run into the Bay of Baeroon, the Dragonspine, and the essentially impassable Crown Mountains.  The last of the Royal Line having died out at the same time these boundaries impinged on Northern dreams, it was decided ‘Empire’ smacked of rather unseemly arrogance (Northerners obviously had a different genetic make-up back then, one since corrected).  They had settled for ‘Realm’ and ‘King’—it was only the last few centuries they’d taken it longingly up again.  But for the love of clinking coins, the last of the Line was gone within a century or so of the Four Brothers’ Going Out!  This was literally thousands of years ago!  He was bringing it up now as some critical turning point in the history of the Realms, the diminishment of the monarchy because a ruler converted to Illianism!?

She swished around a corner in such high choler, servants tripped over each other trying to avoid her.  And how was it a man commanding so much respect, prestige, and patronage throughout the Realm
as Clarent could be so insecure?  It wasn’t even rational.  She sat down with a vengeance, starting to sign the pile of parchments on her acreage of desk without even reading them.  Could there be something here she was unaware of?  What exactly was the story of the last of the Royal Line?   She’d already been through every vestige of Ancient History she could find chasing down Melkin’s daydreams; she knew there was nothing more there.  She paused, lifting the quill and dripping ink over the Act to Investigate Corn Weevil Infestation, thinking of the mouldy bookshelves in the cramped relic room in the Library.

No.  No, she had a better idea.

She’d doubtless disturbed him this late at night, so she started with an apology.

Elger waved it away. 
“For an Illian to be summoned to the Royal Palace—twice in one day, no less—is more honor than inconvenience, Majesty,” he chuckled.

Sable felt herself relaxing, which a cool bath and quick change of clothes hadn
’t been able to even touch.

“
I was told something this evening that I wonder if you could shed some light on,” she began casually.  He murmured something accommodating.

“
The High Priest is under the impression that the last of the Royal Line was actually a woman, and was removed from her throne for converting to Illianism…” she said lightly, as if wasn’t that the funniest thing?

But a shadow crossed his face—the first time he
’d ever looked uncomfortable—telling her that firstly he knew what she was talking about, and secondly…that he probably was going to be reluctant to comment.  Correctly guessing that he wasn’t going to want to discredit a Marekite High Priest by even appearing to contradict him, she added, “I know the facts of this matter are lost to time, and that of course the details will be forever hidden, but I wonder if the Illians have any knowledge of this…?”

He hesitated for a long time, eyes absorbed with the detailing of the carpeting, until she thought he was going to make some excuse and remain
out of the controversy. It was almost a surprise when he began to speak.

“
Her name was Karmine.  Like all the generations since High King Kendrick, she traveled much in Addah.  At that time, the Wolflands were the accepted northern Imperial border, and consort between Addah and the Empire was necessary, with grateful cooperation on both sides.  The Ways of Il were well-known and quietly believed in by many Emperors.”

He glanced at her composed face.

“Karmine chose to make an issue of it, courageously, for it cost her the Throne.  She was deeply affected by the Addahites, having spent much of her life there with her father.  When the Emperor was killed—the border was a continual battlefield in her day—she returned to Archemounte to be crowned.  It was not long before she was accused of apostasy.  The Marekites, who were more powerful then, demanded she either renounce Il or her right to rule.  She abdicated.”

Sable felt herself withdrawing
, felt her liking and trust ebb immediately.  It was deeply improbable, what he was saying.  No Northerner would ever do that.  Duty, responsibility, order…these were pounded into the national brain pattern from its earliest signs of activity.  Especially those of Royal Blood.

“
That simply wouldn’t happen,” she said quietly.  It was said Illians didn’t lie, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t honestly believe a story that was no nearer to the truth than Clarent’s.  “There is nothing that could take the place of such a duty, such an honor in a person of the Line.”  He wasn’t Royal, wasn’t even a Northerner.  Maybe he simply couldn’t understand this.

He glanced up from the floor. 
“Unless there is something more important, even, than a Realm.”

She shook her head at him, re-emphasizing,
“There is nothing more important.  It goes against every ingrained teaching of the North, denies the single most paramount concern of Royalty…and there would have been no reason to do it.  It was politically inexpedient, personally disastrous…”

“
She did it for love of Il.”

Sable stared.  Was he being deliberately obtuse?  Throwing out these intangibles again?  Love was something for children,
an emotion, a sentiment to be guarded against for its ability to skew perception, to bias good judgment.  It certainly couldn’t be applied to theology, and definitely not to politics.  Perhaps there were unknown variables back in the days of the ancients,  but this was so discordant with Northern thought processes that it had no ring of truth to it.

She stood slowly, disappointed, and bade him a courteous evening. 

Undressing for bed a few moments later, she mused pensively over the day.  Her anger had evaporated.  Her concern over whatever was causing Clarent such palpitations had been laid to rest—she wasn’t going to wander into Illian apostasy.  It was the Shepherd’s words that bothered her.  He had seemed so guileless…she
wanted
to believe him.  But, the Emperors of old, their few generations buried in the Histories alongside the Ages of War, were not foolish men.  Nor were the women.  Their lives were short and brutal, ending almost without exception on the battlefield.  The women were usually widowed early, their sons dying around them.  Personal entries were practical, no-nonsense reports of horrific events, atrocities even.  She hadn’t even been aware there were female rulers back then, though orphans like Karmine would probably have held the title before they could marry.

Busy as she
’d been and tired as she was, Sable stared at the ceiling long after the lights were out.  Why was there this small part of her that wanted to believe him?  Was she that much of a romantic?  Fabled narratives had an accepted cultural value, but they made for an invalid base for either scholars or rulers…                                                        

What if there was more than life to duty, an irrational
part of her pleaded, and what if there was love that wasn’t silly sentiment…but so profound that it could change your life?

She turned over impatiently, determined to sleep, shutting out that irritating phrase that wouldn
’t stop drifting through her head like some misplaced ghost…

…
for love of Il..
.

CHAPTER 9

If there was anything finer than being out to se
a on a midsummer day, Ari didn’t know what it could be.  He stood at the rail, watching the blues and greens and greys of the ocean seething happily as far as the eye could see.  The occasional gull still circled overhead.  They were out of sight of land, but he’d overheard a Fleetman say they’d never be more than a few leagues from shore the whole trip.  The sun was warm, the ship moved eagerly, alive, under his spread feet, and he felt the same yawning, yearning expectation that he’d had in the High Wilds.

Loren groaned softly next to him, but managed a stoic smile when Ari glanced over.  His
stomach wasn’t real impressed with the new surroundings.  A sail snapped sharply, and for the dozenth time, Ari turned around to look at the ship, torn between the endless activity on board and the almost mystical draw of the horizon.  The Fleetmen glided purposefully across the decks, climbing the rigging like monkeys, bare feet padding as surely on the booms dozens of feet above them as they did on the deckboards.  Sails were let out and taken in, booms swung and swung again as the ship tacked and toyed with the stiff breeze.  The bear-like Sailmaster called out orders and was cheerfully answered in bellowed, hearty, unintelligible ship jargon.  

On either side
of the Mermaidon, somehow holding their exact position despite the tugging playfulness of the wind and waves, rode two other Fleet Sloops, one on either side of the white wake gushing out from below him.  Dancing over that froth from its post at the stern, the big, forked banner of the Mermaidon snapped, pale sea-foam green with a rampant silver lion gleaming in its middle.

Up at the bow, Commodore Kraemoor had
apparently finished talking with the six new Seawolves; they followed the Master-at-arms below.  Jaegor glanced over at them as they stood at the rail, skin tightening around his eyes, but Rodge had stayed below when they were taken down and given a tour.  The Wolves passed through the hatch…and in their wake, came Selah.

She
spotted them and walked easily over, the sea breeze tugging at her baggy clothes so that for once her lissome figure was beautifully outlined.  Ari sighed contentedly.  She had lovely curves, all of them coming quite purposefully right to him.

“
Loren,” she said in her low voice, “I brought you this packet of herbs.  They always keep me from getting seasick.  I thought you’d like a bit of it for, er, prevention.”

“
You’re wonderful,” he breathed, wasting no time in wobbling across to the hatch with them and down.

Ari and Selah grinned at each other, and he studied her face surreptitiously
as she settled comfortably against the rail next to him.  Her hair was growing out already, curling around the column of her neck in thick waves of the richest, darkest brown he’d ever seen.  Her complexion had cleared up a little, a pink and white freshness for the huge, expressive eyes to sit in.  But, she’d refused every effort of Cerise’s to wear anything even approaching fashion, finally hushing that dominatrix with the observation that it was above her station.  The plain, rough cotton tunic was belted with nothing but a braided rope.

He was brought out of his reverie by her saying dreamily,
“I love the sea.”

“
You’ve sailed before?”

“
I’ve had a busy life,” she admitted wryly.

“
How did you come to…that is…how are you…?”  To his relief, rather than listen to him chew on the foot in his mouth, she answered:

“
I was orphaned young.”

For a moment, the earth, the waves, the sun, the rocking ship all ceased to exist. 
“Me, too,” he said.  Slowly, they smiled at each other.  Her dark eyes were a thing of wonder when she smiled.  He cleared his throat.

“
So, you just went off adventuring?”  He couldn’t deny the whispers of excitement coursing through him—he, who had nothing to offer any normal girl, who could never dare be interested in any of them.

“
Circumstances rather conspired that way,” she said in her dry voice, obviously laughing at herself.  She was the most unaffected girl he’d ever met.

“
Where
are
you from?” he got up the courage to ask her.

“
From the North.  I just took an Addahite name because it’s my favorite place to be.”  They smiled at each other again, in perfect sympathy.

“
You’re not scared of traveling alone?”

“
That’s why I go in disguise.”

“
But you’re not intimidated by anything…” He didn’t care if he sounded frankly admiring.  He
was
frankly admiring.

She shrugged,
looking contemplative.  “I guess I’ve just seen a lot.  I’ve worked in royal courts where self-interest and deceit were the paths to power.  I’ve been given food by starving beggars.  Once, I lived with an old couple who spent their whole lives scrimping and saving and sacrificing their happiness for their measly plot of land, only to see it all swept away in one bad storm.  Random cruelty, unnecessary kindness…”  She shook her head with an ironic smile.  “The world seems to swirl around capriciously, bestowing either or both…undeserved or well-earned, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern.  It makes sense only from the Path of Il.”

He stared at her.  That was the longest speech she
’d ever made.  And it had ended with Il.

“
How?” he asked quickly, almost pouncing on his chance.  “How does Il explain it?”

“
You see life for what it is: nothing but a short, grim, drear fight, sprinkled here and there with unexpected happiness.  The light, the joy, the reward—it’s all outside this world…and after it.”

T
hey talked all through the dancing, breezy morning, the Mermaidon tossing them thrillingly through the ocean, the gulls crying mournfully above them.  They laughed and teased each other.  They explored the ship in whispered, companionable excitement.  They agreed in horror to skip the tasteless hardtack and powerfully pickled meat laid out for lunch, sneaking apples out of the galley and taking them to eat down with the horses.  It had to be one of the best days of Ari’s life.

Everyone was starved for dinner and the galley was full.  Banion, Melkin, and Kai were dining
in the Commodore’s cabin, and whether Cerise was offended she hadn’t been invited, was seasick, or just found the company too inferior to be tolerated, she and Selah didn’t show.

There was plenty of entertainment without her…in fact, she probably would have put a severe damper on the goings on, the Northern Face of Disapproval being so impossible to ignore.  Small talk and the rough jibing of men who know way too much about each other
was far better accompaniment to the overflowing tables of steak and potatoes, warm chunks of fresh brown bread, and vats of fresh peas and beans.

The great red-headed giant across from Ari and Loren gave them a bread-graced grin when they caught his eye.
“Good, eh?” he demanded.  “Benefits of sailing the flagship.  ‘Course,” he added, teeth disappearing behind a saddened mouth, “that means more shedder-work.”  His neighbors signaled agreement in a varying range of grunts.

Both boys looked at him blankly, chewing industriously. 
“Shedder?” Loren said, grabbing another piece of steak with his knife, Merranic style.

Th
e sailor grunted.  “Fire-shedder.  You know, keeps fire from eating the wood—which, unfortunately, is what this big tub is made of, bow to stern, top to bottom.”

“
And every splinter’s got to be slathered with the stuff,” his neighbor on his right added, pointing a forked potato in their direction for emphasis.  Though they’d gotten used to it after a couple days in Alene, the boys could definitely smell that sharp reek around the ship…especially in enclosed, warm places like the galley.

“
Can you use it on humans?” Loren asked, pausing in his shoveling.

This brought grins and short jets of laughter and wry exclamations from all over the cramped, low-ceilinged
room, gently rocking in the play of the ocean.

“
Nay, lad,” the red-head answered blithely, “THOUGH, me Da tells a tale about
his
Da…”

A warm background noise of approval swelled through the big room, made small by the numbers of enormous men packed into it. 
The Fleetmen sat back expectantly, grabbing their mugs and picking their teeth over their empty plates.

“
Well,” the red-head said, obviously feeling the waves of encouragement and leaning back to take a swallow of beer.  “My Grandda had been spreading shedder.  And, as sometimes happens, he ended up in the bucket himself, up to the elbows, thanks to a bit of buck from the ship.”  Empathetic laughter circled around.  “So, there he is, standing there dripping the slimey stuff, when the lookout shouts, ‘Fireship!’”  For some reason, this was funny.  Shouts of appreciation and more laughter punctuated the close air.

The red-head was holding his hands up in the air, looking around wildly. 
“So, my Grandda, he’s trying to wipe the stuff off on everything in sight—his bloomers, the deck, the rigging, his mates’ clothes, the cow.”  The entire room was laughing now, probably as much at their comrade’s acting as the story itself.

“
They told him later they’d thought he’d been possessed by the Snake-Dancers,” he winked at Ari and Loren, pausing while the room quieted enough to continue.

“
Well, he tried about three times to get up to his station, but couldn’t get but about a foot off the deck before he’d slide right off the rigging.  Men were running all around him, over him, up the side of him…”  You could hardly hear now.  Fleetmen were pounding the tables, roaring.

“
Then, a fireball hits!  My grandda, he looks at the pieces of fireball, looks at his hands, looks at the fireball, then runs over to it, picks it up, and starts throwing it back!”

The room was convulsed in thundering laughter, bouncing off the ceiling, booming off their ears—Ari and Loren had
only understood about half of what he was saying, and less of what he was implying, but it was impossible not to laugh just from the hilarity of the Merranics.

Finally, the noise died down a little and the neighbor just down the table suggested,
“We should start leaving buckets of it out for boarding!  Death by shedder beats death by spit-and-grill!”  This brought renewed gusts of laughter, macabre as it sounded to the boys, and seeing their blank faces, their tablemate wiped his eyes and hastened, hospitably, to explain.

“
Everyone knows the Enemy loves their fire,” he confided.  “Well, if they board you, they’ll knock you out if they can, kill you only if they must.  Then they’ll string you up by your own rigging and get their fun out of you for as long as you can stand the flames!”  He grinned and winked at them.  “I advise, if we get boarded, you jump overboard.  They won’t follow you.  Can’t burn anything in the water!” And he was off again, along with everyone who’d heard, lost in roaring appreciation of his own cleverness.

The boys carefully concealed how deeply disturbing THAT little tidbit had been, looking around and laughing as if w
asn’t this, indeed, the essence of comedy.  But that night, Ari tossed fitfully in his hammock.  The snoring men a few inches away on either side and the creaks and groans of the ship were only partially responsible.  His dozing dreams were full of a world in flames, complete with cackling gremlins and burning sails.

He and Loren and Selah were standing blearily at the rail the next morning
with a chatty Fleetman, reliving last night’s enlightening conversation and nursing mugs of steaming coffee, when the Commodore came on board.  They’d been watching his boat row over from the Sapphire Crown, the other ship having disappeared sometime in the night watches.

The Fleetman, who
’d been saying, “Soulless they are.  Will skin you just to see your fat sizzle—” about the Enemy, decided abruptly he had more healthy places to be and scampered up some nearby rigging.  The Commodore, big and resplendent with his glimmering bits of silver flashing in the frolic of the sun, paused for a second as he stepped on board, then walked right toward them all in the stern.  He strode past the chickens clucking in their wooden crates and by a couple of the Seawolves checking over the two small rowboats lashed to the deck close by, and right up to them. 

The boys watched nervously as
he approached, several large men trailing in his wake.  How did one talk to a Commodore?  Selah, with her thick repertoire of experiences, handled it nicely for them, sinking into a graceful curtsy and murmuring, “Good morning, Sir.”  They left out the curtsy, but dipped their heads respectfully and murmured something in mimicry.

He didn
’t seem overly concerned with protocol, to their relief.  “Good morning,” he greeted them casually.  “I trust you got a wink or two of sleep last night.  I’ve heard you’re getting along well with the men, which is a compliment, if you don’t know it.”  Closing one dark-lashed eye in a wink, he said conspiratorially, “They don’t usually take much to Northerners.”