The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (79 page)

Among the priests accompanying them stood Karoshin, who looked out over the holy river in reverence. Dropping to his knees, he lowered his head in prayer. His acolytes quickly did the same. Lukien watched them, unable to hear their words. Overhead the sky was a brilliant blue, as if Sercin himself had cleared away the clouds just so they could enjoy the view. The air smelled sweet, not of blood but of flowers, and all the ferukas had been taken from the water, resting idle on the beach. Not a single fisherman waded through the scarlet waters. In the distance, the tower mountain that was Sercin’s home had been swept free of the ghostly mists. The red tide that had gushed from its peak had already receded.

Lahkali was more at peace now than Lukien had ever seen her. She stood proud and tall, no longer like a girl but fully like a woman grown,
casting her gaze out over the inexplicable river. To Lukien, who had seen magic in many forms through the years, the river was perhaps the strangest thing he had witnessed. He had not believed the tale when he’d first heard of it, nor any of the other incredible claims Jahan had made. But now, standing on the banks of a river made of blood, Lukien would have believed anything possible. As Lahkali slipped her hand into his, Lukien sighed.

‘You were a fine student, Lahkali,’ he said softly. ‘I will miss you when I’m gone. I won’t forget anything that happened to me here.’

‘You are happy then, Lukien? You do not seem happy.’

‘No, I am happy. I am have just been . . . thinking.’

‘Of Cassandra? And why she did not come to you?’

Lukien grimaced. ‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps it was just a dream,’ Lahkali suggested. ‘Perhaps you were not dead at all, not even for a moment.’

‘It felt like death to me,’ said Lukien, remembering the bliss of floating and the perfection of the apple orchard. ‘It is just how it was last time. Except . . .’ He shrugged. ‘She never came.’

Lahkali was silent for a moment. She kept her hand in Lukien’s, giving it her reassuring grip. Soon the crimson would recede and the water would return to normal. In a few days time, the miracle would be over. Lahkali seemed determined to enjoy every minute of it, but her face drooped with concern over what Lukien had told her. She grew edgy.

‘Do you have anything that belonged to her?’ she asked suddenly.

Lukien looked at her. ‘What?’

‘Cassandra. Do you have anything of hers with you?’

‘That’s an odd question, Eminence.’

‘I am wondering, that’s all. Some men carry trinkets of their lovers with them. Do you have one?’

‘No,’ Lukien said sadly. ‘Only this . . .’ He patted the amulet beneath his shirt. ‘Cassandra wore it before it was given to me. It reminds me of her constantly, but it’s not the kind of good memory you mean.’

‘Do you have anything else? A ring, maybe? Or a lock of her hair?’

‘No, nothing. Lahkali, why do you ask?’

Lahkali did not look at him, but rather kept her gaze on the river. ‘Maybe I’m just curious.’

‘Or maybe not,’ said Lukien suspiciously.

‘What about a story,’ the girl suggested. ‘There must be a story about her that only the two of you know, something you both shared. Can you think of one?’

‘I suppose I could if I tried. Tell me why.’

Lahkali laughed. ‘You are mistrustful!’

‘Lahkali, it’s a strange question!’

‘No, not here it isn’t,’ said the Eminence. ‘That’s how people talk about the ones they love here, Lukien – with stories.’ At last she turned to him. Her eyes looked tired. ‘We have been here long enough. Let’s go back to the palace.’

‘Already? We just got here.’

Lahkali let go of his hand and began to move away. ‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s go to the palace, Lukien.’

The long ride back to the palace was punctuated mostly by silence. Lahkali rode in a litter carried by a dozen brawny, bare-chested servants, while Lukien rode behind her on a horse of his own, remaining with the soldiers and Karoshin’s acolytes. The whole group seemed disappointed in the Eminence’s decision to leave the river so soon, but when they arrived at the palace Lahkali gave all of them leave to go back if they wished. Confused, Lukien hurried up to Lahkali and asked for an explanation. The young ruler merely smiled and took his hand again.

‘We should be alone,’ she said. ‘I want to show you something.’

She was acting strangely, almost giddy, but Lukien allowed her to guide him away from the others and along one of the palace’s many flower-lined paths. It was late afternoon and the trees threw long shadows across the lane, providing needed shade and a hint of the coming evening. A few straggling priests who had not joined the others passed them along the way, bowing deeply to Lahkali and offering her words of thanks. They were in a part of the sprawling palace Lukien had never been before, and he took the time to marvel at the statues and high walls that rose up around them like a maze. The grounds became deathly quiet. Priests sat cross-legged under trees, deep in prayer, their lips barely moving as they lightly uttered chants. Lahkali kept to the path, walking slowly as she held Lukien’s hand, not bothering to explain any of the interesting things they passed. A strange sense of dread dropped over Lukien, but he could not fathom why.

‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked in a whisper. He looked around, surveying the statues and the walls built of carefully laid bricks. ‘Why is it so quiet here?’

‘This is a place of prayer,’ explained Lahkali. ‘People come here when they want to commune.’

‘Commune?’

‘Wait,’ advised Lahkali. ‘You will see.’

They continued walking, turning left and right and left again, going deeper into the maze as if it had no end. The priests soon fell away, and
up ahead stood a tall black gate with ornately twisted iron bars. Past the bars Lukien could see what looked like a cemetery, with long, rolling lawns and neatly trimmed trees. Dotting the grass were stones, some of them beautifully carved, others small and ugly. The gate was unguarded. It was also unlocked, as Lukien quickly learned when they reached it, watching Lahkali tug on it to pull it open. As she did she stepped aside, fully revealing the lovely space. Lukien peered his head inside. The tranquil setting brought a smile to his face.

The garden went on for acres, stretching past the visible end of the palace itself, all of it hemmed in with various walls that directed the eye to the many separate areas. Amid the stones and trees, Lukien saw small pockets of people gathered, many of them kneeling next to the carvings, talking or nodding happily. Even the ones who were by themselves were talking. The nearest person, a young man in plain peasant garb, lay on his side near one of the stones, laughing and chatting all by himself. Lukien stared at him in wonder, and suddenly he remembered a very similar looking rock that he had once uncovered by accident.

‘Story stones,’ he whispered. He looked at Lahkali for an explanation. ‘What is this place?’

‘We call it the Story Garden,’ said Lahkali. Her face grew placid. ‘Lukien, this is the greatest gift I could give you. I have no other worthy way of thanking you for what you did for me. I laid in bed for days wondering how to repay you, and this is the only way that made sense to me.’

‘Lahkali, I don’t understand.’ Lukien peered into the garden. ‘Is this a burial place?’

‘No.’ Lahkali took his chin in her hand and guided his gaze to hers. ‘Listen to me now – this place is sacred to us. You spoke of the story stones. Do you remember?’

Lukien remembered perfectly. In Kaliatha, Raivik the Akari had come from a story stone. It was how his people communed with the dead, he had told Lukien. ‘Tell me,’ he urged. ‘This place – can anyone speak to the dead here?’

‘It is a secret,’ said Lahkali. ‘No one outside of Torlis has ever seen the Story Garden. Only you, Lukien.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you mourn, Lukien. All these years, and still you mourn.’ Lahkali took his hand again and stepped through the gate. The others in the garden paid them no attention. ‘Look at all these markers, Lukien. They are what the Akari Raivik told you they are – story stones. They call the dead back to our world.’

Lukien was awestruck, drifting after Lahkali with his eyes like saucers. ‘All of these stones? They are all for speaking with the dead?’

‘In this place there are no boundaries between the worlds. The spirits of the dead can cross easily into our lives. The story stones summon them.’

‘And all these people? They are talking with the dead?’

Lahkali smiled. ‘Does that seem unbelievable to you?’

‘No,’ sighed Lukien. ‘No. I want to believe. Tell me more, Lahkali. Tell me everything.’

As they walked Lahkali spoke, continuing to lead him deeper into the Story Garden. The iron gate fell far behind them as Lukien listened, enraptured by the girl’s tale.

‘Malator the Akari built this place for us,’ she began, ‘hundreds of years ago. His people have the knowledge of summoning the dead; you know this already, Lukien. When he came to us, he passed this knowledge on to us and created the Story Garden.’

Lukien nodded. ‘You haven’t mentioned Malator since I came here, Lahkali.’

‘And you have not asked, Lukien.’

‘What could I ask that you would tell me? He must have something to do with the Sword of Angels. Ah, but I don’t care about that now.’

‘You want to speak to your own dead lover, I know,’ said Lahkali patiently. ‘But listen to my story first.’ She continued walking, tredding green grass with Lukien at her side. ‘The Akari were angels to us. That is how the sword got its name. It is the Sword of the Akari – the Sword of Angels. Malator was kind to the King of Torlis, my ancestor. This garden was a gift for the king.’

‘A gift? For what?’

‘That doesn’t really matter. Malator came here to ask our help, remember. In those days the Akari were warring with your people, Lukien. The Jadori were slaughtering them.’

‘The Jadori aren’t my people exactly, Lahkali. But go on.’

Lahkali slowed. Up ahead stood a small altar, weather-worn but sturdy looking, sitting alone near a tree. A handful of chisels and brushes lay across the altar. Stacks of stones lay near its base. They were the same small, ugly stones Lukien had seen dotted throughout the garden.

‘Here,’ Lahkali pronounced. She stood beside the altar. ‘Later, when you are done here, I will tell you the rest of the story. But now there is something you must do, Lukien.’

Lukien looked at her helplessly. ‘If there’s any way for me to see Cassandra again . . .’

‘Choose a stone.’

‘What for?’

‘So you can make a story stone for Cassandra. Take any of them, it doesn’t matter.’

Lukien nervously picked up one of the rocks. Smaller than his head, it nevertheless made a loud thud when he placed it on the altar. His hands dithered as he brushed the dirt from its smooth surface. He stared at the stone, then at Lahkali.

‘I’m afraid,’ he confessed.

Lahkali’s face filled with sympathy. ‘Don’t be, Lukien. Remember – this is what you’ve always wanted. You don’t have to die to see Cassandra. You have only to come to this holy place.’

It seemed impossible, yet Lukien believed. In Torlis, where rivers turned to blood and gods came to life as serpents, what did it mean to talk to the dead? It was just one more miracle.

‘What do I do?’ he asked.

‘Think of a story, anything that is special between you and Cassandra. Think hard on it, and then carve the words into the stone. Not the whole story, just a few words. Just something that she will remember. And when you do,
believe
.’

‘Believe,’ echoed Lukien. ‘Yes, alright.’

He picked up one of the chisels, a small tool with a blade kept sharp by some caring grounds-keeper. He knew exactly what to carve into the stone, remembering those long ago days when he would send secrets notes to Cassandra. He always signed them the same exact way.

‘When I first loved her she was the wife of my king,’ said Lukien in a low voice. ‘Every chance I had I sent her notes. It was our secret. She kept them, I know, and hid them from her husband Akeela. Lahkali, if I sign on this stone, will she know it is from me? Will it summon her?’

‘Yes, Lukien.’

‘But it’s just a stone . . .’

‘No. Not here in the Story Garden. They are markers. They summon the ones we love. You have to believe, Lukien.’

‘Yes,’ Lukien agreed. ‘Alright.’

He steadied the stone with one hand and began to carve with the other. Lahkali assured him that it made no difference how beautifully he carved or how he spelled the words. It was only the meaning that mattered, she explained, and how deeply he believed. Slowly, carefully, Lukien carved the stone with the words he’d used to sign his love notes all those years ago. It took long minutes for him to complete, and when he was done he leaned back and showed his work to Lahkali, who read the inscription and smiled.

‘Your Adoring Servant.’

Hearing her say it made Lukien colour. ‘That’s it. That’s what I was to her. I still am.’ He looked at her blankly. ‘What now?’

‘Now you choose a place for it,’ replied Lahkali. ‘Someplace quiet and pretty.’

*