THE SWORD AGAIN (11)
Any member of the royal kindred may ascend the amethyst throne. But it is true that, normally, the succession is from mother to daughter.
The female line is favoured as women are considered especially close to the Great Spirit Mother, and the Weaver, Mara, who represents ruling, is a woman and a mother. Some say that it is a custom which comes of the elves, where their queens take several lovers and husbands, for a woman knows for certain who are her children, whereas a man does not, so that the female line of succession is always clear. Other scholars disagree with this explanation, believing that it is enough that The Great Mother is a woman, and that our rulers must naturally be in Her likeness.
Any heir has to be presented for approval to the Senate and the people, and this is usually done before the current queen dies. The heir-apparent is known as the Panthra (or Panthron)-in-Waiting.
The Emperor Vordath I never went through this useful preparatory period, with some obvious consequences.
Forath ys Jarain—History of the Emperor Vordath I
At breakfast the next day, Nefta suggested that they should go back to the temple where the sword was hidden, and inspect it. They set off on horseback, with Nefta, Steppan and Harith carrying obvious weapons, to warn off any potential attackers. Harith told Fluin privately that he thought he was not only enormously improved in swordplay, but almost good enough to take on all but the most experienced opponents. “After yesterday,” Harith said with a grin, “you’ll be a lot more focussed, too!”
Steppan heard what Harith said. He was more cautious. “You don’t want to get into a fight with an experienced swordsman yet, Flu. You’re just good enough to lead one on. The concealed weapon will be enough to protect your life, if your power isn’t. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, so we don’t want to use our powers. Or for that matter have to draw steel and fight, if we can avoid it. There are too many unknown enemies and risks out there.”
“But since I don’t want to be king, why would anybody want to kill me?”
Steppan sighed. “Well, you might be sincere, but later change your mind. Just by being you, with the prophecy and the sword, you represent a threat. To some, you will be a snake under the house, dangerous even if you are without fangs. Then there are the dark wizards, who are probably even more perilous, until you have acquired all your mage abilities.”
Fluin sighed in turn, depressed.
The four rode out of the gates of the villa. As they wound their way through all the stalls in the square, many invitations to buy food, cloths, spices, leather gear, bootshines, massages, magical artefacts and other things were shouted up at them. “Good sirs, the best ham in the shire!” “Nkōsis, look at the quality of these daggers! Just feel the sharpness of the blades!”
Steppan, Nefta and Harith ignored the appeals, but Fluin was fascinated. He didn’t keep up with the others and was soon separated from them in the crush of the crowds. He didn’t feel confident of his ability to handle the horse—he hadn’t done any riding practice since they’d arrived—and was starting to panic. The commotion, and the relatively inexperienced rider on his back, were making the horse skittish, and Fluin began to be thoroughly afraid. Just then Harith turned in his saddle, and saw Fluin’s predicament. He began to turn his horse around, but was hindered by the crush of people and stalls. Fluin’s horse was getting ready to bolt.
Suddenly, a blind beggar woman came out of the crowd, and with unerring precision, grabbed the reins, one instant before the horse would have leapt away. She gentled the horse, then looked up at Fluin with sightless eyes, and said in a sibilant whisper: “Behold the Bearer. Behold the rightful King. Take care, My Liege.”
In a moment, Harith was back with Fluin, and had leapt off his horse and taken the reins from the woman. “Thank you, lady,” said Fluin, his natural politeness and good manners taking control in an awkward situation, and was reaching into his purse to give her a copper denar, when she abruptly turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Who was that?” asked Steppan, who had at last reached him.
“Just a beggar woman who stopped the horse bolting,” said Fluin. “Thank the Goddess!” He very much did not want to have anything strengthen the argument that he was destined to be king. But he could not forget what had been said. He felt shaken by the certainty in her voice and on her face, by the fact that she had known who he was. Even though she was blind. Even though she had never met him before.
Steppan looked at him sharply, but let it go. Fluin dismounted, and together, he and Steppan led their horses out of the square through the crowd, and up the steep cobbled streets out of the town gate on the northern side of the river.
On the road to the chapel, Steppan, Fluin and Harith sang ballads and love songs—it was a glorious autumn day even though they were so far south and it was almost the month of Storth. The autumn leaves were falling fast, though the pines and the falces were still green. The air was crisp and silver.
Fluin found himself riding side-by-side with Nefta.
“I’d never heard much about Fanuiloth before,” he admitted, thinking he might as well find out as much as he could while he had Nefta riding with him.
“He lived a long time ago,” said Nefta, shrugging. “These days, only historians—and wizards—know about him. But the legends are quite clear in their essentials. When the Empire needs him, he will return—or his descendant will—to save the day.”
Fluin refused to meet her eyes. I do not want to be Panthron. I want to be a wizard, to travel with Steppan, and maybe one day to …. if Steppan wants it … to be his … lover. Except, Steppan didn’t love men, like that. He shook his head, dismissing his dreams. Folly! He had food in his belly, a position with good people, and hopes. He was studying to be a wizard. He, a nobody from the back of beyond, was a wizard. He needed nothing more.
“Well, I don’t see how I can be his descendant,” he grumbled, sulkily. “My parents were actors, and Marta was … something to do with the theatre. She met my parents there.”
“An actress?”
“I’m … not sure.” Let’s get this conversation away from me. “But she knew an awful lot about the theatre and the opera and the ballet. She talked about them, told me stories about famous actors and actresses, and about my parents. When they died, she took care of me. She told me what Cappor was like. She taught me Elvish. So … I mean, I’d heard of Fanuiloth, but, well, not a lot.”
“He came to the throne unexpectedly. His younger sister was Panthra-In-Waiting, and the succession seemed settled. He was, it seems, a bit of a … tearaway.”
“A what?”
“He liked parties and drinking and had several lovers, some of them most unsuitable. For a panthrasko, anyway. It’s hard to be royal but not in line for the throne. Many sons have made fools of themselves, while their sisters have gone on to be Panthras or Khedas or headed other noble houses. He made a fool of himself, several times. He was the despair of his mother the Panthra.
“Then the Panthra-In-Waiting was thrown from her horse while she was hunting, and was severely injured. She lingered two days, and, the story goes, he was inconsolable. He adored her. After she died, he shut himself away, for months, gave up his lovers, stopped drinking. Well, so they say. He reconciled with his mother. The more romantic stories suggest it was their joint grief that drew them together. Though my experience is that that can just as easily divide you,” she added cryptically. “Anyway, to everyone’s surprise, the Panthra chose him as Panthron-In-Waiting. There was a lot of opposition in the Senate and there were even some street riots in Cappor. The people wanted something familiar as their ruler: a woman. There was all the usual talk. But the Panthra was adamant.”
They rode in silence for a while. Nefta took up the story again. “So, when his mother died, he became Panthron. It turned out to be a good decision on the old lady’s part. He was a wonderful Panthron.”
She paused again, and the only sound was the jingle of harnesses and the soft thump of the horses’ hooves in the leaf fall on the path. If she was waiting for Fluin to speak, it was in vain.
“He was just twenty when he ascended the throne and our enemies—the same now as then—made the mistake of thinking that he was young and inexperienced and would be easy to defeat. The Fnerxers and Roidans and mountain tribes and the methiones formed an alliance and attacked the empire. Fanuiloth led his armies against them, and was almost defeated.
“The enemies’ necromancers were powerful and some of our allies refused to believe that what they thought was little more than a boy was worth fighting and dying for. At the last minute, almost, the elves and the dragons joined the attack on our side, and their combined power was enough to turn the tide. But it was Fanuiloth who did most to save us. He was an inspired general and his tactics were material in the battle and the victory. After the battle he treated his enemies with magnanimity and generosity. Some mistook this for weakness. The Fnerxer are always unreliable, with their piracy, their constantly warring clans and their barbarous gods. But the Roidan should have known better—they broke the terms of the treaty and attacked again.
“This time Fanuiloth showed no mercy, though then and always he spared those who were non-combatants. Many of the Roidan ruling Council (they do not have a king as we do, but a council of nobles) were killed, cities laid waste and huge areas of Roidan territory annexed. This time the terms were much less generous, and most of the necromancers, who Fanuiloth had demanded be handed over, but were not, were captured and burnt.
“Once more the elves and the dragons came to our assistance and Fanuiloth pronounced the Concord of Cappor, which regulated the relationship between these three sentient species. He was far more than just a warrior. He brought to the empire a period of unprecedented prosperity and peace. He started schools and libraries, encouraged wizards to settle in Cappor and permitted elves to live in the empire and intermarry with humans. He cut taxes for the poor, and increased them on the nobles; he instituted training for the temple priests and codified the laws.”
“Why didn’t he include the methiones in the Concord? Aren’t they sentient, too?”
“Indeed, yes. But they live in the hills near Elfhame, and though he summoned their leaders (whoever they were) to come to the parley, they didn’t.”
“That was a mistake. They should have come,” observed Fluin, almost to himself. He shook his head to clear away the thought that when—if!—he became Panthron, he would ask the methiones to come. He would make them good citizens of the Empire. “Harith showed me his wound,” he said, to silence these traitorous thoughts.
“Oh?” Nefta smiled to herself.
“Yes. Yesterday …. while he was sewing up this.” Fluin gestured to his wounded arm. “If we, I mean, if Cappor is to be at peace, we must include them in the Concord, no? Not just elves and dragons. Any people like us. It’s not right otherwise. I’m not just saying it because I’m elf-kindred, but because it would be unjust to treat a sentient being like an animal.”
“Some say it is unjust to treat animals like an animal,” replied Nefta drily. “But yes, one day we must make a permanent peace with the methiones too, and the other races, though some may just be creatures of legend.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “What about the sword?” he asked. Despite his misgivings, it was impossible not to be interested.
“The sword was his especial weapon, tuned to his hand and soul. But”—she sighed—”that was long ago. He has been forgotten. Perhaps it no longer is effective. Perhaps the magic has faded.”
“Can that happen?”
“Sometimes, yes. We shall have to see. We really need a leader, a fighter, and if Fanuiloth’s sword is … if it still works … it will help such a leader. Who may or may not be you.” She gave him a hard look. “Our enemies have grown stronger, necromancy is once again a force among the Roidan. We hear more and more tales of animal and worse, human sacrifice from the Roidan territories. Even in Cappor, there are now necromancers who freely practise their foul trade. Some regard civilisation today as decadent and corrupt, compared to what they think existed in Fanuiloth’s time. The Fnerxers are bolder and penetrate deeper into our lands each year. The elves and we are sundered, driven apart by popular prejudice and narrow-mindedness. The schools Fanuiloth founded have declined or closed, and wizards and magic are now regarded with suspicion and fear.”
Steppan had been listening to this conversation in silence. Now he said, slowing his horse until he was riding next to them, “There are several prophecies. They foretell the time when Fanuiloth will return, or at least his sword will be taken up by a worthy successor, at the time when it will be needed. When the Panthra Aliya died, Patrika—who is one of our greatest wizards, and was one of her closest advisors and friends—had a vision foretelling a catastrophic war leading to the destruction of Cappor and the triumph of necromancy. But this future could be avoided if we found the Sword of Fanuiloth and the rightful king. So she sent a few of her wizards out to find it—and him. Not too many, because that might raise the suspicions of, well, anyone watching.”
And you found me, thought Fluin, filled with foreboding. “Were we meant to meet?” he asked in a whisper.
“Yes.” Steppan, and he gave Fluin a smile so filled with affection and liking that Fluin’s heart was warmed and his spirit lifted.
Not long after, they reached the chapel and sat in the sun on the front steps, sharing a meal of dried fruit, bread and cheese. When they had finished eating, Nefta stood up briskly, and she and Steppan moved round the temple murmuring and making sigils in the air. After they had completed their actions, Fluin observed that the soft noises of the forest outside had been cut off and they were in an island of quiet. Steppan and Nefta went inside the chapel and moved to the altar, which they examined in silence. Then Steppan gestured towards the north-facing side of the altar pillar. Nothing happened. He repeated the gesture more strongly, with a word of command. Still nothing happened. “The stone has sealed itself again, and my magic is useless. Come, Fluin.”
Fluin stepped forward and stood in front of the marble. The buzz of future-change filled the air. Fluin, now that he had started to train his talents, could feel it. With a startling crack, the marble front of the altar pillar folded open. Inside was the sword, just as Fluin and Steppan had left it.
Fluin stepped forward and was about to touch it when Nefta quietly said, “Wait—let us see if any of us can touch it.”
But none of them could—as they reached for the sword, their hands passed through it and an agonising burn passed up their arms. Once again Fluin stretched out his hand for the sword. To the onlookers, it appeared to move smoothly through the air into his hand. Fluin grasped it and made a few cuts with it. He wielded the weapon with the assurance of a born swordsman, despite having had only a few days’ training. All three watchers drew a sharp hiss of breath. As Fluin turned back to face them, still holding the sword, they could see in his face something of the king that he might one day become. It was as if they saw, for a moment, the essence of his being, his character. Then he grinned, the excitement of youth quickly overcoming the natural solemnity of the occasion, and the illusion faded.
“May I examine the sword?” asked Nefta.
“Of course,” and Fluin passed it to her, though he felt a strange reluctance to part with it.
Now Nefta could touch it—it was real and solidly physical in her hands. Its blade was covered with Elvish runes. “This this was a gift from the elves to the king before his first battle,” she murmured in wonderment. The jewelled hilt and guard shone in the autumn sunshine. “The Sword of Fanuiloth,” she said, awed. “Found again after over two centuries.” Her voice trembled with emotion.
“May I?” asked Steppan, and placed his hand on it when Fluin nodded. He closed his eyes as he felt for its history. When he opened them again, he said, “It has been untouched by any creature, save beetles and spiders and earthworms, since it was hidden here. I can feel Fanuiloth’s spirit in it. The stories are right, he was a noble man.” Steppan bowed his head as he said a short prayer for the soul of the long-dead king, and added a plea for his help now, to once again save his kingdom.
Silently, Fluin passed the sword to Harith, for his inspection.
“Beautifully balanced,” was his laconic comment.
“What must we do with it?” asked Steppan, turning to Fluin, “It’s yours, now.”
“Mine?” said Fluin, sharply, all his fears returning. “I don’t want it! I don’t want to be king!” He thought of how he’d been the happiest since he could remember over the last few days. He thought about his new-found powers, of the simple pleasures of singing and meditation and magic. He didn’t want to wear a crown. He didn’t want to be alone again, and somehow he knew that a king is always truly alone, unable to tell his true friends from the entourage of hypocrites and sycophants.
“I don’t want it!” he repeated, “I’m not the bearer!” He was angered by the insight that he was wrong to avoid his duty, and that he truly had no choice, if the empire was to be spared disaster.
Almost as if he knew what Fluin was thinking, Steppan said, “Whatever you decide, we’ll be here to support you and help you. You will not be alone. I will be with you, to help carry the burden of kingship. We will be with you, to comfort and guide you. But you must decide soon. We have no time to lose. Each day that goes by increases the danger. You have been sent to lead us. The empire needs you.”
“I won’t change my mind,” said Fluin, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “You said yourself that I was all wrong for the bearer. Elf-kindred, magic, unknown parents! I’m just a nobody from some village deep in the forests. You know that! When you met me, I was a busboy in an inn.”
“Yet you can hold the sword. It’s yours, Fluin!”
“There is much still unclear,” said Nefta, calmly, “but it will in the end be revealed. Let us conceal the sword.” They placed the sword reverently inside the opening in the altar. Then she and Steppan closed their eyes and murmured some phrases. The sword thinned to the faintest of images and then vanished to their sight. The marble doors eased closed. Nefta and Steppan tried scrying through the marble to see if the sword was there. But neither could penetrate the stone covering of the sword’s hiding place. “You try, Fluin. It’ll be good exercise.” She explained how to do it, and despite his reluctance to have anything to do with the sword and all that it implied, Fluin was actually happy to attempt the procedure. He closed his eyes, and followed her advised thought patterns. Immediately he could see the sword lying askew in the cavity beneath the marble.
“It’s there,” he said briefly.
“The sword is safe from most magics then. Only the Bearer can scry it.” Fluin shook his head, doggedly, though the others paid him no attention. “And nobody can see it or touch it without permission from the Bearer. In this temple, the sword is safe—in a place where no-one would dream of looking for it. But perhaps we need some additional screens and protection. If someone comes here to steal the sword, this will summon me,” and Nefta drew an invisible circle with her hands around the altar on the floor. “I will immediately be called to help defend the sword against a unworthy applicant. No-one must ever guess that this is the hiding place of the Sword of Fanuiloth, or that the bearer will one day return to claim what is rightfully his.”
As they rode away, Fluin could feel the presence of the sword. We need each other, it said. You have many enemies, and we will deal with them, it said. Beloved, it said. Fluin resolutely ignored it. On their way back to the villa, all were silent, Fluin with the misgiving that if they spoke, the others would try to change his decision, and Steppan and Nefta because they were mulling over the significance of what had happened. But after a while, Harith drew his horse alongside Fluin’s, and said,
“If it is your duty … ”
Fluin cut him off. “But is it? A vague prophecy, and some beginner’s luck with an allegedly magic sword.”
“Tosh!” said Harith in the blunt, matter-of-fact way he had. “Even I, who am not a wizard, could feel its power. How much more must you feel it, with your gifts?”
Fluin set his mouth in the stubborn line that they would all come to know well. He knew Harith was right, but he was reluctant to admit it.
“I don’t want to be king. I just want to be me.”
Harith looked at him speculatively. “Maybe being king is you! We will still be your friends, you know, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
Fluin just shook his head. He wasn’t convinced of that, nor did he wish to be.
Nick Thiwerspoon 