From his cot in the far corner of the room, Ingeld called out, <Nobody can expect to sleep if you two triffons’ asses don’t stop talking.>
<Isn’t that your last jar?> Rho asked Daem. <I thought you were saving them.>
Ingeld rolled over, favoring Rho with a view of his pale, slightly luminous backside. <You know, some of us have actual duties tonight,> he said.
<Yes, Ingeld, please do tell us again about all the things Lady Frea has ordered you to do for her,> mocked Daem. <We haven’t heard nearly enough about it yet. Has she added polishing her boots to your list of empire-saving tasks?>
Rho leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. He had never understood the weirdly fanatical loyalty that Frea inspired in the talentless idiots who made up a good portion of the Shadari garrison; after four years, he was nostalgic for the time when he’d still found it amusing. <Sorry we disturbed you, but we didn’t think anything we were saying would make it past those magnificent waves of self–satisfaction you’re displaying.>
<Come off it, Rho. I’m sick of your fine Arregador airs.> Ingeld’s quick anger came at him like the swing of a hammer, but Rho had long ago ceased to take it seriously. <Who cares if you’re from one of the twelve high clans? You’re still stuck here like the rest of us.>
<Now, now, let’s not bring clans into this,> said Daem.
<Says the Aelbar, of course,> Ingeld shot back. <You people from the high clans always stick together. Well, the way Lady Frea feels about you, Daem, good luck getting a transfer out—you’ll probably be stuck here for the rest of your life.>
<Anyway,> said Daem, ignoring Ingeld as he unwrapped yet another sweet, <I don’t need to save them now, because soon I’ll be able to buy more. We’ll be getting paid when the ship arrives from Norland, and that always brings the Nomas back—>
<—like flies to shit,> Ingeld finished for him.
<That’s enough!> The last of Rho’s roommates, Ongen, heaved himself up from his cot and swung his heavy legs over the side. The strap had come loose from his hair while he slept and the tangled white strands clung to his thick neck. <Onfar’s balls, didn’t anyone ever teach you people how to keep your conversations to yourselves?>
Daem sat up and said, <In a room this small? Where do you think we are, the great hall in Ravindal? Speaking of which …> He trailed off as he fished under his tangled blanket. <I found this on the table when I came back from my patrol this afternoon.>
He flung the book across the room at Ongen, but the lack of effort he put into the throw sent it spinning toward the table instead. Rho snatched it out of the air, recognizing the plain leather cover; it was the only book Ongen owned, a poorly lettered copy of the battle poems from The Book of the Hall.
<Ongen, we’re all happy you’re learning to read,> he said, pleased to feel Daem’s burst of malicious delight, <but you can’t leave this lying around. You’re lucky the slaves didn’t destroy it.>
<Lucky?> Ongen snapped. <They’re lucky, you mean.>
<Just lock it up in the strongbox next time, will you?> Rho bent down to pull on his boots.
<Why should I? Are we the masters here, or them? I don’t give a damn about their religion.>
<Okay, forget it. If you want your book destroyed, go ahead and leave it out.>
<No, I’m sick of this,> said Ongen. <I shouldn’t have to lock my things up because of them. If we made the punishment bad enough, they’d stop doing it.>
<No, they wouldn’t. Governor Eonar has been here for more than twenty years, don’t you think he tried that? It’s their religion. It’s important to them.>
<Their religion is stupid. They worship the stars, or the stars are gods, or something? What does that have to do with books? The problem is we’re too easy on them. I’m telling you, if you cut—>
The curtain across the chamber’s entrance moved aside and a barefoot slave in a shapeless, undyed robe and a brown headscarf slipped through carrying a basket of clean laundry.
<—cut off their hands or just went ahead and killed a few of them for it, they’d stop doing it.> Ongen watched the Shadari girl set the basket down against the wall and move noiselessly to retrieve one full of soiled laundry closer to his cot.
<Sometimes I think they only pretend not to understand us,> said Ongen. His silver eyes—too small for his heavy, square face—followed the slave toward the door. <That one there could be listening to us right now. I mean, how do we really know they can’t? And why can’t they? Other races can, lots of them.>
<Who knows?> said Ingeld. <Because they’re from the desert, maybe. Who cares?>
<The Nomas are from the desert.>
<The Nomas get around,> Ingeld replied. <If you go back far enough, I’ll bet there’s even some Norlander in their bloodlines.>
<Do the Nomas even have bloodlines?> asked Daem. <I think it’s really more of a puddle.>
Rho got up to retrieve his sword; the bickering was beginning to weary him, and it reminded him too much of his brothers.
<What are you doing up so early, anyway?> Daem asked him.
<I know where he’s going,> sneered Ongen. <Lady Frea’s passed him down to little Isa, just like a pair of old trousers.>
<Lady Isa’s Naming Day is tomorrow, and I’ve been helping her prepare,> Rho replied, making sure that Ongen felt the full force of his displeasure.
<She’s going to challenge Lady Frea after all?> asked Daem.
<Of course she is,> said Ingeld. <She’s going to name her mother’s sword, isn’t she?>
Rho’s own weapon felt heavier than usual as he lifted it up—it was a family sword, ancient and ungainly, with a huge uncut gem like a bird’s egg set in the cross—and settled the scabbard over his shoulders. His four elder brothers had all passed it over in favor of new imperial blades, and he remembered the diligence with which he’d practiced wielding it for his own Naming Day. When the day came, his eldest brother Gavin had shown up so drunk he could barely stand, and the whole ceremony had turned into a joke. His brothers had been furious with him when they’d sobered up and found he’d named it Fortune’s Blight.
<I wouldn’t mind sparring with Lady Isa one of these days,> mused Daem. <Oh, relax, Rho. What do you expect? There are only two Norlander women in this entire colony, and the other one is Lady Frea. If you want me to think about someone else, get the emperor to start posting women here.>
<I don’t understand why there aren’t any,> said Ingeld. <There were plenty of women in the garrison at Thrakya.>
<That’s the governor’s doing, not the emperor’s,> said Rho. <He stopped allowing any women posted here after his wife—>
He stopped short when he sensed Falkar coming down the hall with an urgency that was hard to ignore. The others felt it, too, turning toward the doorway just before the lieutenant—armed, and in full uniform—pushed the curtain aside.
<Get up and get dressed. Lady Frea wants everyone down at the mines. The triffons are already being saddled.>
<Everyone? Why, what’s going on?> asked Ingeld, bolting up and practically humming with eagerness. <Has something happened?>
<Ask Rho,> said Falkar, and left the way he’d come. The instant he was gone, all three of his roommates barraged Rho with questions.
<Calm down, will you? I overheard something last night at the mines. The slaves sounded like they were planning something—some kind of uprising—so I told Lady Frea about it. That’s all.>
<Oh. I get it,> said Ongen, flopping back down onto his cot. The wooden legs of the simple frame creaked under his weight. <For once I thought we were going to get a real fight. You make me sick, Rho.>
<In that case, maybe you should change rooms. It’s important not to neglect your health.>
sers.>
<He’s got as much chance as an icicle in the desert,> said Ingeld, grabbing a pair of clean leggings out of the laundry basket.
Daem leaned back against the wall. <I hate to say it, Rho, but he’s right about that.>
<If I don’t go back to some place where there’s real fighting soon, I’m going to go crazy,> Ingeld vowed as he strapped on his sword: a cheap, newish blade he’d somewhat hilariously named Valor’s Glory. <What good is having an empire if all we ever do is stand around looking at slaves? How are we supposed to earn our place in Onfar’s Hall?>
<I don’t know—what does The Book give out as the fate for those who die of boredom?> Daem yanked his tabard off over his head even as the others were still dressing. <This place wouldn’t be the empire’s dumping ground if there was anyone here to fight. I think it’s a good joke that we’re here to make sure the imperial swords get made, but none of us are important enough to own one. Onfar must have a sense of humor after all.>
<Why are you taking that off?> Rho asked him.
<I can’t go. Lady Frea has me assigned to day-patrol,> Daem reminded him. <I’m not the kind of soldier who disobeys orders.>
<Yes, you are.>
<Not the orders I like.>
<Just get dressed.>
<This isn’t about the imperial swords. I wouldn’t name one if the emperor himself ordered me to,> Ingeld insisted. <Why do you think Lady Frea doesn’t have one? A real Norlander doesn’t defeat his enemies with tricks. The empire is changing us—being a Norlander doesn’t mean what it used to mean. I was there at the taking of Thrakya when they brought in mercenary archers—archers! The bow is a coward’s weapon. You’ll see, when we go to Onfar to be judged, I bet he counts one kill with a steel blade like ours the same as ten with a black one.>
<Lord Eofar has an imperial sword. Are you saying that makes him a coward?> asked Daem.
<I didn’t say that,> Ingeld replied hurriedly.
<Don’t forget that Governor Eonar has one, too,> added Rho.
Ingeld, dressed now, had no answer for that; he and Ongen headed for the doorway, both of them grabbing their white sun-proof cloaks on the way out. Rho leaned against the wall and waited patiently for Daem to put his boots on. Then he noticed that once again Ongen had left his book lying on the table. He took the key from its hiding-place under the chair, unlocked the strongbox in the corner, and tossed the volume in with the rest of their books, papers, pens and ink. By that time, Daem was ready to go.
<I did hear them planning something,> he told his friend. He hated himself for letting Ongen worry him, but he couldn’t help it.
<I believe you.>
<Frea’s not going to be happy if I’m wrong.>
Daem’s sympathy was reassuring. <Don’t worry. I know just what you need.> He was still carrying the little jar of candied fruit; he took one out and pressed it into Rho’s hand. <Here. You take the last one.>
Amused in spite of himself, Rho tucked the dubious gift into his pocket. <Thanks,> he said, <but I’ll save it for later.>
Chapter Three
Eofar stood in the middle of his bedroom tipping the little bottle back and forth, watching the red liquid slide from one end to the other. He hadn’t slept. In the darkness of his windowless room, he found it too easy to torment himself with the morbid fantasies he’d built up, layer by layer, over the last five months. Several hours before sunset he’d given up, dressed in the same limp shirt and trousers from the night before and sat back down to berate himself for the fact that after all the elixir had cost him, he lacked the courage to use it.
First he told himself that taking it would be foolhardy—he had no way of knowing what it would do to him. Even if it was harmless to the Shadari, no one could possibly know what effect it might have on a Norlander; it might even poison him. Then he had told himself that the elixir was too valuable to waste; they would need money to get far enough away to start a new life—the Antinean Islands, maybe, or Prol Irat—and he had spent everything he had acquiring it.
That had been hours ago, and the longer he hesitated, the less energy he had to deceive himself. He was afraid of the truth—that was the real reason. Everything else was just noise.
He tore the wax seal from the bottle and threw the pieces onto the stone floor. The cork felt warm to his fingers and the air trapped inside escaped with a faint pop as he pulled it out. A bitter aroma snaked from the bottle’s mouth.
But at the sound of someone moving beyond the curtain out in the hall, he stuffed the cork back in and thrust the bottle into his pocket. He held his breath, listening: the footsteps were soft. A barefoot slave, perhaps—Daryan, with his clean linen and breakfast? But no, it was too early. Daryan would still be asleep in his little chamber down the hall.
His eyes strayed for a moment to his sword, Strife’s Bane, hanging in its scabbard on the wall. He had the great honor of being the only other person in the Shadar besides his father to own a black-bladed imperial sword. It was a beautiful thing: twin triffons, worked in silver with shining gold claws and eyes, twined up the hilt and unfurled their wings to form the guard; a row of faceted red calipset stones marked out the crosspiece. His father had commissioned the hilt from Norland especially for him when he was still a boy. When he’d received it he’d thought he could never love anything as much as he loved that sword. His Naming Day had been the first really happy day of his life since his mother’s death. Even Frea hadn’t been able to spoil it for him; she had declared that a real swordsman didn’t need to resort to cheap tricks to win a battle—but her bitter envy had only made him that much more proud.
Now the very sight of it sickened him.
Every time he looked at its shiny black blade he saw reflected the gaunt faces of the men who had slaved their lives away in the mines. He saw the hopeless faces of their families lining up for their daily bread, old men and women and children who would starve if their men tried to escape or died or became too sick to work. He thought of the young men and women snatched from the arms of their families and brought here, to the temple, to wait upon Eofar and his family and the garrison’s soldiers, in darkness, for the rest of their lives.
The blade quivered in its scabbard, responding to his attention, and the triffons’ wings rattled softly against the stone wall. He decided to leave it where it was; he told himself that taking it down would make a noise, and if someone was spying on him, he wanted to surprise them.
He made his way past the low dais on which his bed was placed, and then past his few imported pieces of heavy Norland furniture—a carved chair, a small writing-desk, a trunk with a stout lock for his books and papers—until he was close enough to look out from behind the curtain. His chamber lay at the crossing of two passages, one running parallel to his room, north to south; the other beginning at his door and running westward about twenty paces before it intersected with another north-south passage running the length of the temple’s western wall. That passage, like most of those along the outer walls, was pierced at intervals with small window openings, and from the door of his room Eofar could look straight down to one of these windows.
That’s where he saw Isa. The shutter was still closed but the latch had been lifted, allowing a tantalizing sliver of light, glowing with the depth and color of a jewel, to creep through a tiny chink.
She had her hand in the light.
<Isa!> Eofar cried, springing forward. She snatched her hand away just as tiny tongues of blue flame rippled across her palm and she whirled toward Eofar, her long white hair fanning out around her shoulders. <Damn it, let me see your hand,> he demanded, grabbing her pale wrist and pulling her toward him as she attempted to conceal her hands beneath the wide sleeves of her gown. <Isa. Let me see it.>
<Let go of me,> she said, but he tightened his grip around her wrist and bent closer to examine the flesh. A few blue blotches marked her palm, but nothing worse. The veins underneath her semi-transparent skin shone with a healthy blue glow. There was no sign of the b
lack poison that resulted from a serious burn. <There—you see?> she told him. <It’s fine. Nothing.>
<We talked about this,> he reminded her, but he relaxed his grip and she pulled her hand away. <You promised me. I told you I’d tell Father if I caught you again.>
<Oh, really? And how are you going to do that? Ask Frea to tell him for you?> she asked. She knew how badly it rankled that Father hadn’t spoken to any of them except Frea in months.
<That robe might be a fine thing to sleep in, but do you really think you should be walking around like that? You’re not a little girl any more,> he snapped back at her. She was cocooned in the folds of a shimmering gossamer gown, the kind worn in Norland over several layers of more concealing clothing.
<It’s too hot for anything else,> she complained, but he saw her tug the collar a little closer around her throat.
<You’d be cooler if you braided your hair,> he said, simmering with impatience. <Or better yet, if you went back to bed until later. Which is what I’m going to do.> He turned and started back toward his room.
<Wait, Eofar. I need to talk to you. About Frea.> When he turned back around, her silver-gray eyes were sparkling in outrage. <She’s still saying she won’t fight me.>
<Well, I still agree with her,> he said, even though he knew this response was sure to prolong the conversation. <I’ve told you before, I think we should skip it. Just keep the sword, if you want it so badly. No one will know. And Frea doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter to her what you do.>
He’d known this moment had been coming, ever since Isa, ten years old at the time, had taken the opulently jeweled sword from their mother Eleana’s tomb and stubbornly dragged it back to her room. As the eldest daughter, Frea had first claim to the sword, but she wanted nothing to do with it; for her own Naming Day she had commissioned Blood’s Pride from the swordmakers at Ravinsur according to her own precise specifications. But there was still Norlander tradition: if Isa wanted to carry her mother’s sword, she had to fight her older sister for the right to do so on her Naming Day. That was her seventeenth birthday. Tomorrow.