details altered? I could show it to you before I submitted it to the library.”
“Your life or your silence,” Haruuc said with a heavy finality, and Ekhaas saw Midian’s throat bob as he swallowed.
“No papers,” he agreed.
It was enough for Haruuc. He put his back to the gnome and returned his attention to Geth. “Of the welcomes I’ve made tonight, this is the one that I have anticipated the most. And I regret that it has been delayed. I would welcome you before my court, but I think you understand that I can’t. Still, know that you have my highest respect.” He put his fist to his chest and held it there. “Saa’atcha, Geth, bearer of Aram and hope of Darguun!”
“Saa’atcha,” repeated Munta, Dagii, the unknown hobgoblin, and even-after a sharp glance from Haruuc- Senen.
The self-assurance that Geth had displayed in defending Midian seemed to evaporate before the formal greeting. Or rather, Ekhaas suspected, before the prospect of being the hope of Darguun. “Uhh… twice tak,” Geth said, then thumped his gauntleted fist against his own chest. “Saa’atcha, lhesh.”
Haruuc smiled. “I prefer your bluntness, Geth. You may use my name.” He swept his arm around the room. “Within these walls, you may all use my name. Like thieves in a den, tonight we conspire to manipulate a nation.”
There were chairs in the room, and Haruuc indicated that they should sit. Wine had been left, and the lhesh poured it for them all as he made the final necessary introductions. Midian flinched at Senen Dhakaan’s name, either because, Ekhaas guessed, he knew her by reputation or because he recognized the prestige that the grant of the Dhakaan name-an homage to the great empire-carried among the Kech Volaar and the other modern Dhakaani clans.
The unknown hobgoblin was Vanii of the Ja’aram. “The last of my shava,” said Haruuc.
“Shava?” asked Ashi.
“A sword brother,” Haruuc told her. “Someone who is trusted to fight beside you in battle, to defend you, to take charge of your affairs and deliver news of your death if you die in battle. It is an ancient and highly honored tradition.” He sat down in his chair by the window. “Many warriors never trust anyone enough to have a shava. I was fortunate enough to have three.” He tilted his cup, letting a little wine fall to the floor. “To your father, Tariic- and yours, Dagii,” he said. “We owe tonight to his words.”
He drank deeply. The rest of them followed his example and Ekhaas found that the wine was excellent, deliciously tart after so long drinking wine made in the human fashion.
Haruuc lowered his cup. “Geth,” he said, “show us Aram.”
The shifter stood and drew the sword. The light in the room shimmered on the purple byeshk metal of the blade. Ekhaas felt the same thrill that she had felt when she’d first seen Geth draw it, before she’d even recognized the weapon’s name and history. It was the same thrill-or chill-that every descendant of the Dhakaani Empire should feel on seeing a true lhesh shaarat, a sword forged for warlords and heroes. A human might not have seen anything more than an ancient hobgoblin sword, somewhat heavier than most yet still perfectly balanced, still free from nicks and scratches in spite of its age. But to a goblin, to one of the dar, the sword spoke of the power of the warrior that dared to wield it.
“Ah,” sighed Haruuc, leaning closer. Munta, Vanii, Tariic, Dagii-all of them shifted in awe at the sight of Aram. Senen tried to retain her aloof and angry manner, but Ekhaas saw her ears stand and her face shine with excitement. Ekhaas understood her reaction. She’d experienced it herself at first. For one of the Kech Volaar, keepers of the history of Dhakaan, possession of such an artifact was beyond a dream. Under any other circumstances, the leaders of the Kech Volaar would have sent agents-like Ekhaas-to seize the sword and whisk it away into the safety of the great vaults of secrets beneath Volaar Draal. But Aram wasn’t any other sword, and she found her voice rising out of her.
“Behold Aram,” she said, her voice ringing. “Forged by Taruuzh dashoor in the age of Dhakaan and given to Duulan, first of the name Kuun. The sword of heroes that will not suffer the grasp of a coward, held by the warrior who carried it in triumph from the ghostly fortress of Jhegesh Dol!”
Aram had accepted Geth’s touch. The shifter had earned the right to carry the blade. The Kech Volaar would not have taken it from him.
“Behold Aram,” Senen repeated like a soft echo.
“It’s true,” said Haruuc. “Everything you said about it, Ekhaas. If I had any doubts…” He sat back and looked around the room. When he spoke, his voice was hard once more.
“You all know that Darguun will face a crisis of succession when I die.” For a moment it looked as if Vanii might interrupt with some protest at this reminder of the lhesh’s mortality, but Haruuc held up his hand. “My death, like all our deaths, is inevitable. I don’t look forward to it, but I must plan for the day it comes. I must choose a successor and, for the sake of Darguun, I must do all I can to ensure that my successor’s reign does not see an end to what I built. Darguun is my legacy to our people, a nation that is our own. I want it to prosper. But I ask myself-why will our people follow my successor? Many warlords follow me because I am Haruuc. Will they transfer their loyalty to the one who comes after me?”
Haruuc curled his hands and rapped his knuckles together pensively as he continued. “If I’d listened long ago, I would have realized that the answer had already been given to me by Fenic of Mur Talaan. After the battle to capture the town that has become Rhukaan Draal-one of the most hard-fought battles of my life- he told me that the town had not stood by its lord, but that it had stood by the history embodied in the symbol of a feathery helmet. Only recently have those words come back to me. The lhesh of Darguun also needs a symbol of our people’s history, something to tie the present to the glorious past.”
Geth started and bared his teeth. His grip on the sword shifted and tightened. “You want Wrath?” he snarled.
The lhesh laughed. “I already have a sword!” he said, patting the weapon that rested nearby. “It will go to my successor as a symbol of his connection to me, but its history extends no farther than a weaponsmith’s shop in the town of Rheklor. The symbol I seek must be older.” His gaze stayed on Geth. “The inspiration for the symbol I wish to pass on to my successor came from your rediscovery of Aram. Knowing that I needed a connection to Dhakaan, I sought a closer tie with the keepers of history, the Kech Volaar. For thirty years, I have tried to make alliances with the Dhakaani clans, but I was rejected. The Kech Volaar, the Kech Shaarat, and the other kech saw no value in aligning themselves with an upstart warlord who had drifted from the pure traditions of the empire.”
“Until you came to the Kech Volaar with a true appreciation for the power of history,” interrupted Senen. “Don’t portray us as isolationists hoarding knowledge as a dragon hoards gold. We have kept the history of Dhakaan until it was time to bring it forth. That time is now.”
“As you say,” Haruuc said. “We found common ground. The Kech Volaar would benefit from the resources of Darguun. Darguun would benefit from your stories and the inspiration of the Empire of Dhakaan.”
“And you thought you would benefit from access to our vaults and the artifacts of Dhakaan.”
Haruuc’s ears flinched. “The candor of the Kech Volaar is famous,” he said to Senen, then to the rest of them, “To put it bluntly, yes. I was disappointed, though. There are many wonders in the vaults of Volaar Draal, but none were exactly what I needed. Still, the potential for an alliance grew steadily. Then one day, a duur’kala returned from the west with stories of a tainted dragon and of a shifter who had recovered the blade Aram.”
Ekhaas felt her face grow warm, and Haruuc nodded to her as he continued. “The duur’kala was Ekhaas, of course, and the shifter was Geth. At that time, I only knew Aram as a distant legend, but the Kech Volaar assured me that there was more to the story and that Aram might be the key to gaining what I needed.” He looked to Senen.
“Taruuzh, who forged Aram,” the ambassador said, “was the greatest of the Dhakaani dashoor, wizard- smiths whose secrets modern artificers haven’t duplicated. He was the creator of many marvels, the three greatest of which were the binding stones that defeated an army of monsters during the ancient Daelkyr War, the grieving tree that we still use in a different form today, and the sword Aram. But our histories record that when Taruuzh forged Aram, he didn’t forge it on its own.”
Senen’s voice rose into the cadence of a storyteller. “Raat shi anaa-the story continues. It is said that Taruuzh found inspiration in all things. It particularly pleased him to work in the mines, where he could handle the raw material of his creations, and he was so working in the mines of Suthar Draal when he found a vein of byeshk so pure that he named it Khaar Vanon, the Blood of Dusk. Taruuzh spent a year beneath the ground in the mine,
