From Leona Fontaine, Sentinel: The Murder of Lucaine Pyramides
(Editor's note: Fontaine's work is a historical novel, not a history, and as such, some of her assumptions are challenged by scientific historians. The physical events of the following passage, however, are upheld by eyewitness accounts. Other narrative elements, such as the specific thoughts and motivations of the principles, are plausible, but open to debate.)
In Seleucar, it rains only at night.
Mages say that local mysteries of air and temperature cause the clouds to release their sorrow only after dark. Priests make holy signs in the air, and thank the benevolent gods for their unwillingness to mar the endless sunny days of jungle-locked Seleucar's noble reign. The skies, indifferent, continue on as they always have; floating blue-white and aloof during Helios' circuit, then falling upon the city with the sound of a hundred rapids. During the season of summer rains, the city becomes a wetland for an hour each midnight. Bearing Catarin deSangre in his arms, Lucaine Pyramides crosses the rainscape like a phantom crane, a half-seen shadow blocking out reflected lamplight for a split-second at a time. By the time ripples spread from his footsteps, he is five yards hence; by the time the crashing rain tears those ripples apart, he is gone.
Trenton Deis knows nothing but the rain. The sun long ago became distasteful to him, a gauche reminder of the idiotic concept of "clarity." Sunlight is as naïve and mindless as innocence itself, and so Deis has come to embrace the Seleucarian night, and its summer downpour. To him, the night is home, and its varied thieves, gamblers, prostitutes, and drug-sellers are family. But he is apart even from them. Half-mad, he is called, but he is all too sane, crouching atop the Opera Hall, watching the silent progress of Lucaine Pyramides from beneath the broad brim of his pointed hat. And he thought back to the moment when his life had crystallized around him.
The flames, that day, were a wall of light arising from a well of blackness; nothing is so fearsomely contrary to nature as fire creeping across water. Trenton Deis took courage from it. The wheel of the law turns forever, and the wheel of fortune, and Trenton Deis lived from revolution to revolution, revolt hidden deep in his soul. Hidden in his cloak, a long straight sword, anointed with a single drop of the bitter blood of Castomira Brangwin, layered with poisons, enchanted with fell magics.
Pyramides stood alone, that day, gazing into the flames as if into a future of hopeless snows. Fearing his strangeness, his allies kept their distance. Driven by helpless desire, Lucaine's temper flared easily in those days, the days before he found his peace. To speak aloud his love to her was more than he could do, and so his aura of despair drew an empty circle around him as surely as Three Moons did in combat. And into that circle came Trenton Deis.
Trenton Deis was feared, for he was without fear. He met his victims face to face, killed them without ceremony of respect or concern for self-preservation, he left the scene at the same mechanical pace he approached it. Among his associates, he was called the "point-blank assassin," and was regarded as insane, or beloved of the gods . . . or both, each being an apt euphemism for the other.
Lucaine Pyramides was a jet-black icon silhouetted against a towering wall of flame, impossible to miss. Trenton Deis lurched forward, as if tripping, revealing his blade only at the last moment, aimed directly at Pyramides' back. With a hiss, his blade cut through the fabric of Lucaine's three-quarter coat . . . and into open air. Still staring into the ever-shifting flames, Lucaine Pyramides had avoided the opening blow by inches. Still staring into the flames, he swung his sheathed sword directly into Trenton's temple, felling him. "Don't give him a warrior's death. Let him hang at dawn," he said to the soldiers who rushed to subdue the stunned assassin.
As Deis's head cleared, the world resolved itself around him in a slow progression of images: his hands, bound in iron manacles; the roaring flames, waves of heat beating against his face as he approached the lonely swordsman; Castomira's dead eyes as she hired him for this ill-fated contract; the edge of Lucaine's jaw, a bare glint of flame off the oblique lens of his eye, as his peripheral vision targeted Trenton for the disabling blow. And as Trenton Deis's world resolved itself around him, within him arose a new emotion, one that he'd used to his great advantage but never before experienced: hatred.
And now, manacle-cuts still raw on his wrists, Trenton Deis is free, fugitive, hunted and hunter, tracking the rain-swept flight of Lucaine Pyramides and his noble charge. He will not even strike them tonight. His lifetime of uncaring is behind him. No longer does he wish to "get it over with," to kill and stalk away, to attack without taunts or preamble. He can guess, now, what love is, because he knows what hatred is: it is an attraction, a cold fire, a desire to be known and recognized, a twisted desire for respect and acquiescence. For Trenton, it is not enough to kill . . . he will see Lucaine humbled. And for that to happen, he must first see Lucaine rise high.
On White Owl Street, a block from Riverwalk, Lucaine rose high, a single leap carrying him from cobblestone to rooftop, where he settled as quietly as a nesting owl, and set his princess gently on her feet. (Two blocks away, Trenton Deis folded his spyglass and descended a drainpipe, to track his prey from below.) "From here, we enter enemy territory, my lady. Are you certain of your vision?"
"I am certain, Lucaine. The Staff of Nicator has returned to the King's Tomb. And only I may retrieve it."
"Then prepare yourself, for we will move quickly from this point on."
"Quickly? The world was a blur all the way from the Library. Do you intend to move between the raindrops? Outrun the sound of thunder?"
"Yes, I do."
Catarin in his arms again, Lucaine moved. His words were not mere boast; at a dead run, he crossed rooftops, leapt across canyon streets, reading the wind and rain, and only one drop out of ten found its way to Catarin's skin. Whether through careful planning or blind instinct, the outlaw fencer found his way through Mycale's patrols, clearing one in a single stupendous bound that began in the darkness before their torches and ended in the darkness behind. And then they were on the riverbank, nostrils pinched against the lasting reek of expended oil, the legacy of Beggars' Arch. Without slowing pace, Lucaine ran along the very surface of the water, cutting tiny wakes in its rain-tormented surface. The darkness of the river was absolute. If Mycale's guards scanned it idly for silent riverboats, they did not mention the sight of a single swordsman, carrying a woman, running silently across the surface of the black water; for who wants to admit that he is mad, and seeing visions? Lucaine and Catarin passed unnoticed beneath the bridge of the Avenue of Gold, and then up the banks into the Heroes' Park.
"We've bought a lot of time. But they're going to know we're here as soon as I kill the guards outside the tomb. The enemy officers are certain to have Deathsight."
"I know, Lucaine . . . I'll move quickly."
Scattering wet leaves in his wake, Lucaine rushed through the woods of the Heroes' Park, one arm cocked to shield Catarin's face from whip-like twigs. At lethal speed, Lucaine wove between tree-trunks, avoiding the few soldiers who patrolled the woods. As he broke into the open facing North Bastion Road, he picked up speed again, traveling as quickly as a diving hawk, feet barely touching the ground. Sighting an oncoming trio of guardsmen, Lucaine took flight, literally running up the city wall to attain the northern battlements. This time, he cursed his luck as he heard cries of alarm and disbelief, quickly left behind at ground level. Speed poured upon speed, Lucaine began to breathe heavily, as the continuous run began to tax him. Flitting along the parapet, he encountered another of Mycale's soldiers, fruitlessly attempting to shelter a tobacco-filled pipe from the rain. Lucaine sprinted past him, a moving blur in the darkness, and the startled guard slipped on the rain-slick stone and fell to his death on the ground below. Lucaine had eaten a skullcap mushroom that day, and the guard's death sounded in his consciousness; he knew that every military officer on duty must surely have experienced the same thing. He heard Catarin utter a quiet prayer for the man's soul, and echoed it. Then he whispered a prayer for himself, as well, for he knew he would kill more of Mycale's innocent loyalists before the night was done.
Lucaine dropped fifty feet to land gently back within the city. The entrance of the King's Tomb was brightly lit, and even from the other side of Bastion Road, Lucaine could tell that the guards had not yet been alerted.
"None of the guards have Deathsight, it seems. Are you ready? As I take them, you run past me into the tomb. I'll cover you."
"Thank you. Good luck, Lucaine," Catarin whispered in his ear. Lucaine . . . her bold defender. Soon, every Mycalian soldier in the city would converge on the King's Tomb. She kissed him on the cheek, knowing she might never see him again save as a corpse. "Let's begin."
For weeks, fruitless battle had painted streets with blood, turned heart against mind, friend against friend. The Church deliberated long in crystal halls, and prayed for long hours. Church officials held closed Mass to beg the gods for guidance. Their neutrality was required by long tradition. The Seleucarian Empire existed by grace of Sarapis, not by grace of the Church, and so the Church held no sway in governance. But when it seemed that the Empire's fate might be decided by force of arms, the Church was divided as well. In spite of the continuous debate over shrine placement, the Church was known for impartiality: in many places, priests were called as judges, for their honor was above reproach. It was this honor that forced the Church to bitter dispute. Was it nobler to back Catarin, obviously the better ruler? Or to allow Mycale's victory by remaining neutral? For three weeks, the elders of the Church begged Sarapis for insight.
And insight they received, in mighty vision that caused the temple halls to ring with divine echoes for a full day afterward. The Staff of Nicator, thought lost during the Black Wave, was once again within the boundaries of Sapience. Whoever found the symbol of Nicator's reign would take on the patriarch's majesty as the indisputable monarch of Seleucar. The Church sent emissaries far and wide, to all the cities, proclaiming the news.
The news that the succession had led to warfare was a shock to Ashtan and Shallam alike. They had heard news of riots only, for Grandier and Errikale had shared in the work of hiding the civil strife, holding the peace of Seleucar far higher than personal victory. But the Church's vision was a message of peace, as well; breaking off all battle, supporters of each contender spread out into the countryside, searching for the legendary Staff.
The questers followed a hundred rumors, legends, bardic tales. At times they did come to blows; private museums were ransacked, castles looted, travelers searched at knife-point. But the Quest for the Staff, in all its turmoil, claimed no lives, caused little lasting damage. One week after the Church's proclamation, the Staff had not been found, and no one knew just where it might reside . . .
Except for Catarin deSangre, even now walking through the darkness of the tomb, past ranks of royal relatives sealed in gold-inlaid sarcophagi. Awakened by the presence of their sister, regal shades arose, saying "Catarin, my dear, go further on; what you seek is just a little ways away, down the Hall of Years, further in the past." Time moves differently within the Tomb of Kings; the centuries of Seleucar's blood tumble in upon one another. One who would reach the tomb of the First must stride backwards along the branches of history, must feel the kingdom's history unravel itself around her, until she stands in the center of a small city with a giant army, and sees the million lights collected against the Black Wave.
No Tsol'teth, Lucaine Pyramides was all too human, yet a thousand lights smashed and swirled around him. Despairingly human, he cut and slashed endlessly, deftly blocking the entrance to the tomb, but suffering a hundred minor wounds in the progress. His style relied on dodging blows, but here he could only stand his ground, ensuring that Mycale's frantic troops could not reach his only love. Twelve empty wooden vials were scattered at his feet, and only three remained clipped to his belt. His pouches of defensive herbs were slim, his pipes near empty. Soon, he would be forced to submit, even as the bodies of his foes piled up against the pillars of the tomb entrance.
The enemy fell back, and Lucaine sheathed his sword, breathing deep, ragged breaths. He drank another draft of healing elixir, then wiped blood from his brow where cuts had been a moment before. Mycale's troops looked at him with suspicious awe. A few brave souls moved in to drag away the bodies of their fallen friends, flirting with the edges of Lucaine's circle of death. To husband his energy, Lucaine let them do their work. When the corpses were cleared away, the soldiers yet hesitated. "He weakens. Look at him sweat! Look at him gasp! See how he hoards his healing, gauges his defenses! One more attack, and he will surely fall!" The voice was that of Duke Lucius Errikale.
"I knew you'd come after me, Errikale. Since you never smile, I had you pegged as a suicidal sort."
"Ironic words from one who stands in plain torchlight behind enemy lines! Don't you know that you're doomed?"
"When you count up how many of your men I've killed so far, tell me. It's either two hundred seventy-three or two hundred seventy-five, but there was this stretch where I was killing so many people at a stroke that I sort of lost count. Oh, wait, it doesn't matter, because I'm doomed. How silly of me!" Lucaine grinned amiably, desperately masking his exhaustion. Two more waves of enemies. He predicted he could handle only that many, perhaps another fifty men, and then he would finally succumb, dropping his guard for just the critical moment needed for them to split his skull. Every second he could rest before they swarmed him again was another second in which Catarin might return from the Tomb, Nicator's Staff blazing in her hand.
And swarm him they did, at Errikale's command. Lucaine killed four of them as he drew his blade, slashing in a great diagonal from sky to ground. Then, holding Three Moons before him with both hands, he summoned the power of fire to his blade, and his attackers fell back from the sudden furnace blast of heat. Three Moons shone like a tiny sun as Lucaine attacked, casting fiery rainbows in all directions, driving his opponents away from the doorway as a goodwife might shoo rats with a broom. But Mycale's men were enraged, and scented victory in Lucaine's trembling stance; they attacked again, tenacious as hunting dogs, giving their very lives to put a single nick in Pyramides' skin.
At every fresh attack, Lucaine caught an enemy stroke with his blade, snaked around it, and counter-attacked with a deadly blow. But during each capture and counter, three other attacks landed, and Lucaine suffered. But he did not die. Already, once, he had exchanged inner energy for physical health; he could not do this again. But he sustained himself through this battle on determination alone, and drank from his final elixir of healing like a man fresh from a desert.
Slashing in eight directions, he blessed the points of the compass with blood, and another Mycalian soldier fell . . . and Lucaine was, again, alone in the doorway of the royal crypt. "Is that all?" he asked, and was unable to banish irony from his tone of voice. He was very nearly dead. He raised his last elixir to his lips, and found it empty. "Here," he said, tossing it in the direction of Lucius Errikale. "Could you go get me a refill?" Conserving the last of his inner power, Lucaine allowed the flames of his sword to fade and die. Blood from unhealed wounds stained Lucaine's skin. The very beating of his heart was turned against him, as it forced precious blood out of his body and into hostile air.
"You are remarkably amusing, Pyramides," said Duke Errikale, stepping into the torch-lit circle before the Tomb. And for the first time in his life, Duke Lucius Errikale smiled. His venomous fangs glistened in the flickering light, and a murmur of shock ran through his loyal ranks. "I will regret killing you."
"I will regret dying," Lucaine said, with weary honesty.
Lucius produced a slim knife from within his clothing, a bone-white dirk that glowed faintly green even in the orange torchlight. "I am curious to see how your Three Moons fares against the Arsenic Fang. The holy weapons of two ancient traditions, pitted one against the other . . . it is poetic, is it not?"
"Do you have any last words, Lord Errikale? Since you've revealed yourself as a Serpentlord, you might want to make some pithy little statement before you die. You know, to sort of set your affairs in order."
"I'll write a whole memoir, Pyramides, after this is over."
"I'm sure that memoir will be a best-seller in Hell, then."
Lucaine Pyramides is a master of The Two Arts, a sword style surrounded with the utmost secrecy. Only once did he mention the name of one of his techniques: the Desperate Angel, the ultimate expression of defiance.
Drawing upon his deepest reserves of hope and fear, passion and regret, Lucaine took all his exhaustion, all his helpless rage, all his futile dreams, and sent them roaring into his blade. The silvery light of heaven, that beckons the dying as they cross death's threshold, suffused Lucaine's living features as his sword began to burn with pure silver. Realizing his peril too late, Lucius raised his dirk in feeble self-defense. He sensed even then that his gesture was worthless.
Lucaine's feet seemed not even to move, yet in an instant Lucaine was behind Errikale, then to one side, then the other, then behind him again. Three Moons left a brilliant trail that briefly formed a broken star, four stellar lines drawn sharp in the dim torchlight. Lucaine shook blood from his sword with a movement of his wrist. Duke Lucius Errikale fell to the ground in pieces, and the Arsenic Fang, shattered by the first blow, sprayed poisonous acid over the body.
Lucaine slowly sheathed his sword, knowing that come what may, he had no strength to draw it again that night. His legs shook beneath him. As Three Moons came to rest in its sheath, Lucaine fell to his knees, then toppled face-forward onto the stones of the entryway of King's Tomb.
The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the pale blue slipper of Catarin deSangre, and the hem of her dress, lit from above by the Staff of Nicator, as if by a hundred suns.
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