C HAPTER

Mena found the note beside her on the bed when she awoke. Seeing the square of paper, she knew exactly what it was, and the knowledge twisted her heart. Melio… It meant he was gone, probably afloat already on one of the early transports sailing from Acacia for the Teh Coast. A cruel trick, for he had given no sign that he would leave her like this when they spoke last night, nor when they made love just hours ago. He had said not a word when she yet again washed herself clean of his seed. Or perhaps he had.

The night before, naked against him, still breathing hard from the conclusion of their lovemaking, she spoke as if it were just another night. True, she did touch on the bizarre realities of their life, but these were topics they turned over many times.

All this that we're doing," she had said, "in so many ways, it feels unreal. I live it, yes. I do it. I slay monsters and ride a winged lizard and lead armies to battle… It's strange, though, when I step back and imagine how others will hear this story. That's what it is, you know? It's a tale from the distant past. It's Edifus and Tinhadin. It's Hauchmeinish. It's the Forms before they were Forms. How is my killing Maeben or slaying the foulthings any more probable than the Priest of Adaval slaying the wolf-headed guards of the rebellious cult of Andar?"

"There were twenty wolf-headed guards, for one thing. You had much safer odds."

Mena nudged him. "Be serious."

"Even if people forget the Priest of Adaval, they will not forget Mena Akaran. Not Maeben. Not the slayer who flies with beauty. Not the warrior princess who beat back the savage Numrek. Such things can't be forgotten."

Had they said more? Yes, she believed they had. Strange, though, that they had managed to speak of mundane things. She had described a dream she had had in her childhood, one in which she and a girl had tried to catch fish with nets. He had claimed he never dreamed, saying life was strange enough for him by far. They had talked nonsense about which were worse, the bites from mosquitoes in Senival or those of the black flies of the Aushenian spring.

At some point, Mena had rolled away from him and, without thought, out of habit, really, went to perform the brief ritual of cleaning her sex and washing away his seed with the herb mixture he so hated. Perhaps it was at that moment that he parted with her. For, when she slipped back into bed, he turned away without comment or protest. His breathing had been steady, though not yet that of sleep, and she had chosen to wrap an arm around him and hook her ankle over his and share the silence. That silence, though, may have been different to him than it was to her.

The note she held pinched between the fingers of her two hands testified to that.

M,

You were right about everything, of course. I was slow to learn, but I know it now,

She knew the words by heart, for she had written them to Melio almost ten years earlier. It was the note she had written him. And below it, the same postscript: I love you. If ever the world allows it I'll prove it to you.

Exactly what she had written just after returning from killing Maeben on Uvumal and just before she gave herself up to Maeander Mein. On that occasion, she could not face saying good-bye to Melio. There was too much uncertainty before her, everything in the world at risk, and she had not been sure that she would be able to face it if he asked her not to. She penned the letter and set it beside him and snuck away on silent feet. Cowardly in many ways. Hurtful in others. And yet the things she wrote to him were completely true. He had been right; she had been slow; she did love him and wanted to prove it someday.

How to interpret this newer version of the same? Was he making the same promises to her? No, because he had no need to prove himself. He had never failed her in any way. Or was he reminding her of the things she once promised and had failed, thus far, to deliver? Yes, she thought so. There was only one thing more she could have done to prove her love to him, and she had held off doing it year after year after year. She deserved to be reminded of it. If it really was meant to remind her of her note to him, she understood; and if the world allowed her another chance, she would not fail to give her all to him. She would prove her faith in him, if not in the goodness of the world.

If that was her refrain for the morning, by the afternoon she had taken on another. She's only my sister, Mena told herself time and time again. I don't fear my sister.

The fact that she repeated this a hundred times as she walked to answer Corinn's summons rather belied the assertion. When Mena entered her office, Corinn stood behind the chart table, studying the array of maps and documents displayed there. She looked up, distracted for a moment, and then calmed her features. "Mena, I'm sorry that Melio has had to leave. I know that must be hard for you."

Mena cleared her throat, finding the opening kindness somewhat disconcerting. "Thank you," she said.

"We are coming to times of great sacrifice," Corinn said. "Much will be asked of all of us. Much taken from each of us. You may believe, though, that Melio will be in my prayers just as much as you are, Sister, just as much as Dariel is." Corinn did not give Mena time to fumble through a response to that. She came around the table, but instead of approaching Mena she moved off to the side slightly, stopping beside another table. "I want you to have this. The King's Trust. It is your blade now. No one deserves it more than you."

The King's Trust? She did not know whether she wanted that blade. Too ancient. Too much history tempered in blood. If the legends of it were true, Tinhadin himself had infused it with Santoth sorcery, making it a blade that learned from each contest it fought and took something from each person it killed. Hadn't Tinhadin's grandson used it to execute prisoners? Something he wished to do personally and with only this sword.

"I have a blade," Mena said.

"Your Marah sword is special to you, I know," Corinn acknowledged. "I know well the tale of how you crawled out of the sea with it strapped to your wrist and became that bird god of yours, Maeben. And, true, perhaps the blade is a blessing to you. You've certainly accomplished much with it. But this"-she motioned as if to direct Mena's attention to the ancient sword, something she did not need to do because her eyes were already fixed on it-"this is the very blade that Edifus wielded with his own hand at Carni. It's stained with his blood. Look there on the hilt. That blackened area: that is the blood of the king's hand. I'm sure you know the details better than I-how he almost lost his hand when he caught a foe's blade pinched in his grip."

Mena's fingers itched. A real physical sensation. Of their own accord, they wanted to wrap around the stained hilt and slip the blade free. That's what her body cried to do. She held back. She put one hand to her chest, felt for the eel pendant beneath the fabric of her shirt. She pressed it. There must be awful power in this sword, for the look of it was nothing special. Old, battered, within a simple scabbard with few ornaments, and yet something in her so wanted to pull the blade free.

The last time she had touched that blade was in the hours after Aliver's death. She had picked it up only long enough to wrap it in a burlap cloth and stow it snugly with the king's possessions. When next she spoke of it, she gave other soldiers instructions on how to care for it and return it to Acacia safely. Since then, she had had no wish to handle it again.