My fascination with the Blade of Xadaer began when I was a child, learning to read under the tutelage of the priestesses. There were no other children in that enclave – the last of the most recent cohort, I learned later, had left the year before my arrival – so I was very much alone, most of the time. I think most children are drawn to tales of heroes and battle. That I best loved tales from the First Age said more about the priestesses and their library than it did about me.
I was raised to understand what some Vencari call the Arcmedan blasphemies as plain historical fact. Before our world, there was another, which the gods destroyed for reasons that they have never deigned to discuss with their mortal children and worshippers. This, the Younger World, was built from the scraps of that Elder World and from the detritus of other worlds that the gods found floating in the void after that great destruction. The language of making, which sorcerers wield instinctively and which wizards attempt to emulate, was – well, choose your metaphor: the loom and the shuttle, the needle and thread, the anvil and hammer, the glue and bailing wire, by which those fragments were bound together.
After the making of the world, however, my childhood lessons and the Writ of the Sun reconverge. In the first ages of this world, sometimes called the Heroic Ages, the gods were confronted by, and did battle with, an ancient, primordial evil which had insinuated itself into this Younger World. In the human lands of the Compact, that evil is called the Leviathan, and it gave parthenogenic birth to vast armies of monsters. Xadaer, son of Horaath, son of Althaeruh, fought in those battles, and was lauded a great hero.
It is written that Xadaer’s mother was a priestess nymph from the city of Charuschk. Numerous accounts attest that the generation of demigods into which he was born fought monsters made in their own image: anthropoid, vaguely, but with the wings or heads or hindquarters of beasts, or with fantastic numbers of arms. In my favorite texts, he did heroic battle against creatures such as the Guruken – a squid-like beast who swam through earth instead of water – and the Loblast – a three-headed dragon-like monster with a particular appetite for swallowing beautiful young men whole. In the more reliable texts, he fought in the armies of Althaeruh, against more mundanely monstrous hordes.
All the texts agreed, however, that he carried an enchanted sword, made for him by his father’s sister, the smith-goddess Serkitkala. In the most lurid tales, the sword was forged in the Eye of the Sun, its blade carved of pure lighting, or of the fire of the sun, itself. It spoke to him as a companion, offering advice on both his monster-fighting and romantic ambitions. In the more historical texts it was merely a beautiful red bronze khopesh, hilt ornately tooled and decorated, its blade rune-encrusted, indestructible, and razor sharp.
It was in the latter texts that I found a dispassionate account of his death in one of the last great battles of the age, and of the year-long funeral procession in which he and one hundred and twenty-one of his fellow demigods were interred with their infamous weapons along the cliffs overlooking the valley where they had died. “And so these mighty dead lay in state,” read the otherwise very pragmatic Visions of Khai Rue, “waiting for the heroes of the next Ages to seek their patronage and their mighty arms.”
===
Rennin stood directly in front of the Tomb. Khanaarre sat a few yards back, masked and cloaked on top of her wizard’s chest. The rest of us formed a wedge behind Khanaarre: Elana directly behind her, Orland at the prince’s left, myself at the prince’s right.
“Are you ready?” she asked Rennin.
“Yes,” he said.
“When I say so, open the door and don’t look back. Don’t rush. Do what you have to do. I will monitor from outside as best I can.”
“Understood,” he said.
Khanaarre took a deep breath. She delicately anointed her mask with a drop of blood. Then she bloodied her wizard’s claw, and began drawing in the air. I couldn’t make out the characters, or hear the words of power she muttered, but I could see their effect. The whole of the tomb flashed with a bright crimson light, then dimmed to a warm golden glow.
“Now,” she said.
Rennin pulled at the doors, which opened with far less effort than he had apparently anticipated. He stumbled back half a step, straightened himself, and stepped into the darkness of the Tomb. We all stood stiff and still. The winds howled over the canyon valley behind us. The doors closed themselves behind him.
“He is in the antechamber,” Khanaarre said, letting her hands fall softly into her lap. “He is walking the room slowly. I believe that he is examining the walls.”
Elana took a ragged breath, clutching her hands tightly behind her back. Orland shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to another.
“He is paying particular attention to the walls opposite the entrance,” Khanaarre continued after a few minutes that felt significantly longer than they really were.
I wished desperately that it were me inside the tomb. It was I who had chosen the Blade of Xadaer, after all. It had been my childhood obsession. And now, at the moment of truth, I could not even see the inside of the tomb. But I knew that I was not a hero by any definition, and all sources had agreed on that requirement.
“He has found the lock mechanism for the inner door,” said Khanaarre. “He is passing into the next chamber.” She paused. “And I can no longer see him. I’m sorry.”
Elana and Orland deflated slightly. We had suspected she would not be able to see into the depths of the tomb, but we had hoped we would be able to follow along at least a little further.
“You should rest, my prince,” Khanaarre went on. “As should you, Orland. Derrek or I will rouse you if I detect any movement within.”
I could not quite parse the looks that the two Vencari gave me, but they nodded.
“Thank you, Khanaarre,” Elana said after too long a pause. “But I will not know rest until he returns to us.”
“As you will, my prince.”
And so the four of us waited, though only one had eyes to see within.
Khanaarre kept her masked gaze unflinchingly turned toward the Tomb. Elana’s attention was similarly fixed. Orland stood with us, but his attention wandered across the landscape and, from time to time, over the rest of us. Though my gaze was as fixed on the Tomb as Khanaarre’s or Elana’s, my thoughts were on the elven wizard.
I had not been surprised at Khanaarre’s competence with fire and lightning or bolts of raw force. Those were the things for which the Order of the Black Mask were known, and it had never occurred to me that the prince would travel with a wizard who wasn’t highly competent, no matter how exotic or personable she was. The Black Mask was also known for their conjurations, and for trafficking with demons, and for more intimate relations with spirits than most wizards were comfortable with. But the divinatory and linguistic excellence she’d shown yesterday, and the creative manipulation she had just performed on the wards of the Tomb … those were not run-of-the-mill Black Mask.
Maris Pello. The name, and a decade-old scandal, bubbled up in my memory. She must have trained under Maris Pello. A Black Mask who had specialized in magical locks and puzzles, who had built Emperor Dorian Traianus’ prison labyrinth for wizards. Exiled a few years before Aemillian’s rebellion – our rebellion – when he was accused, but not convicted, of bombing several of the Great Houses. Had he travelled north, to Tanirinaal? It seemed likely. Most exiled wizards fled to Naal, but Tanirinaal was not unheard-of. Hell, some wizards went to Namora or Georg, or even Handar.
It was possible that she just shared Maris’ proclivities, of course, and the similarities in their work were coincidental. But she had to have learned wizardry from someone, and Maris Pello seemed by far the most likely.
What had she done for her journeyman’s quest? The question had idled through my mind fairly often over the last months, but I was now desperately curious.
This. The realization struck me like the sun rising over the mountains in the desert. This was her journeyman’s quest: travelling with the deposed prince on her quest to regain her throne. She had grown up in elven territory and been trained by an exiled Vencarman. She had met the prince on the road on her way to petition the elven Queen. She had never made it to the heart of Vencar. She had never been recognized or acknowledged by the Order of the Black Mask. She had never, actually, in my presence claimed to be a member. Elana had made the claim for her.
The sheer audacity of it filled my heart with joy. Did the prince know? Had I threatened her position, her very life, with my every needling test and jibe? Oh, sweet gods of earth and sky. How fucking delicious.
No matter how things went down from here forward, no matter if she ever forgave me or not, I would do everything in my power to see that she survived to have that audacity recognized and rewarded. If the Black Mask wouldn’t have her, the Obsidian Cabal would.
Hours passed. The sun crept upward in the sky. I brought out my own wizard’s chest, and sat on it as Khanaarre did with hers. Orland brought camp chairs over for himself and for Elana.
As noon approached, Orland and I left to prepare lunch. Khanaarre thanked us, but refused. Elana picked at her meal and said nothing.
The sun crossed the zenith and began its descent. Khanaarre’s focus never wavered.
“Derrek,” she said at last. “Ready a shield. He comes.”
I stood and placed the edge of my dagger on the meat of my hand. I would use the same shield that I had used against Lynqxaemass’ fire.
Elana stood as well, trembling with anticipation behind Khanaarre.
The double-doors to the Tomb of Xadaer cracked opened. Sir Rennin Ösh stepped out, his legs trembling beneath him. The doors fell closed of their own volition as he stumbled down the steps toward us, a long bronze khopesh cradled in his arms like a child.
Elana did not wait for Khanaarre’s all-clear. She rushed around the elven wizard to catch Rennin as he fell. The knight hit his knees, hard, and fell limply into her arms. He had no wounds that I could see, but looked pallid and drained as if he had been in the Tomb for most of a week, not most of a day.
Orland followed her only a moment later, clapping Rennin on the back.
Khanaarre slumped forward and pulled the Black Mask from her face with trembling hands.
There was a version of the plan where this was where I killed them. An early version, ill-considered, un-workshopped, but a version nonetheless. It was still within my discretion to do so, if I discovered some way to return to the mortal world without their aid. Veralar Tann – whose presence we had never anticipated – was gone. Khanaarre – we’d known, from divination and common sense, that there would be another wizard – was exhausted. The Vencari had practically forgotten that I existed, at least for the moment. The resistance would be over and the Blade of Xadaer would be mine.
I stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Khanaarre’s back.
“Absolutely magnificent work,” I said, just loud enough for her to hear.
< Previous Chapter | Home | The World | Next Chapter >
Thank you so much for reading!
New chapters drop every Sunday morning barring unexpected circumstances. New maps and art drop when I finish them, any time except Sunday morning. For the inside scoop, other stories set in Dathl’lyr, access to new chapters six weeks before they go public, and/or a look into all the other things I do, please consider joining my Patreon campaign! Don’t like Patreon or just want to support my work? Drop a tip in my jar over at Ko-Fi!