4 - SUN KNIGHT

They’d not been able to find a ship leaving for Nythanthus anytime soon, and as a result, Mezamir was in high spirits.

They bought horses in Sytara and set out immediately. The weather was bad, the sky full of coal-colored clouds, the taste of air hanging threateningly in the air. The climate was particularly violent and chaotic in this part of the world—Cossara had heard it said that some time ago, Archon Marak had unleashed a great amount of power closeby, and in the process had forever changed reality in the surrounding area. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. Certainly, though, the weather was utter shit.

Ajan’s Road stretched all the way from Sytara to Nyanthus, an entirely straight line of cobbled road; it was part of the original network of criss-crossing roads built by the Archon when he first ascended to power. Riding along it now, Cossara could see all the signs of its replacement being built in the distance.

They called it a railroad. New technology, devised by the Archon’s engineers. They already used such a mechanism for travel around the capital of Amin, utilizing things called trains to move along lengths of rails, powered by steam.

Mezamir pointed to the railroad now as they left gloomy Sytara behind. “I didn’t realize the Archon’s latest project extended this far south.”

“The Archon’s projects extend to all corners of the Autarchy. That’s why he’s the Archon.”

“Are you sure it isn’t because he killed all the opposition?”

Cossara startled in her saddle. “What is the matter wtih you?” she hissed. “You must watch your tongue, Mez. It’s become a little too loose.”

“There’s no one out here but us.”

“And a thousand railroad workers,” Cossara said dryly, gesturing. Indeed, from a distance, the swarms of construction workers milling around the growing railroad resembled ants, working furiously underneath a gathering storm. Many of them were slaves captured during the recent wars against the Ascendency and the Rising Dominion.

“They say that only one in three survive the first year,” Mezamir said. “The workers, I mean.”

“The slaves.”

Mez peered at her closely. “Perhaps your tongue is getting a little loose too.”

Cossara waved a hand. “We’re agents of the Autarchy. We can speak truthfully amongst ourselves. No need to hide behind sanitized lies.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

No, it didn’t sound like her at all. Cossara frowned off toward the workers—the slaves. She didn’t like it, though of course she understood. The Autarchy came before all else. They were the guiding light that would usher humanity into a golden age, and it was only a matter of time before the Autarchy ruled every inch of the world. Yet the concept of slaves did not sit well within her heart. If they were a guiding line, then they ought to set a guiding example.

Cossara pinched herself. What was she doing? Why were her thoughts verging on questioning the Archon? She was committing crimes within herself.

“Anyway,” Mez said casually, swaying in his saddle, “I think it’s a good thing. I’ve never seen one of these trains but if it means I can get to and fro without having to get on a damnable ship, then they can enslave half the world for all I bloody care. I ought to get down there and whip those bastards myself.”

“Why don’t you?”

Mezamir sniffed. “Why, wife of mine, because I am an esteemed member of the Seeking Hand. I have a much greater purpose to fulfil on this sinful world.”

They rode at a fast pace for five days straight, and not once in that time did the accompanying railroad to the west cease to stretch toward the distant horizon. How much steel did such a project require? Steel production was, and had been, one of the Autarchy’s primary focuses for well over a century now. The Archon was constantly building new steel refineries and opening iron ore mines. It wasn’t hard to see why.

Ajan’s Road was a popular one, used by legions of merchants and Autarchy officials, though they encountered far fewer people than Cossara had expected. Those they did encounter barely looked twice at them. She and Mezamir were dressed in the manner of simple travelers, their clothes simple, quality, and worn. They didn’t display any wealth, nor did they outwardly carry anything that marked them as servants of the Archon. They both visibly wore swords, but that was nothing unusual—most people did, either as a fashion statement or for practical purposes. The blades they carried were good, sturdy and sharp, meant for killing rather than flaunting, but they were also dull and ugly and would attract no attention.

When they did occasionally interact with another traveler, it was Cossara who had to do most of the talking. Mezamir’s Gift, bestowed upon him by the grace of the Archon, was that he was forgettable. He had a small amount of latency psychic power that rendered his features vaguely blurry and indistinct to the average person, allowing him to easily escape notice. People would look at him and mere seconds later completely forget they’d even seen him in the first place. He was, to most, a ghost. It wasn’t an effect that Cossara ever personally noticed. They had known each other for almost their entire lives, which gave her immunity, and besides, all Operatives were psychologically conditioned to deal with such tricks. Sometimes, however, when she looked at him for too long, her head would start to ache. Often she wondered if it were related—though more likely, it was simply caused by all the ways in which he often grated on her nerves.

On the ninth night, camping in the woods just out of sight of the road, Cossara reached into her saddlebag and produced a deck of cards bound in leather.

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Mezamir spotted them, groaned, said, “Please no.”

“It’s time,” Cossara said solemnly. “You’ve been denying me a game for too long now.”

“I’d rather gouge out my eyes.”

“That could be arranged.”

“There’s little point in playing. It goes the same way each time. If I wanted to be mercilessly beaten, I’d rather it not be at the hands of my wife.”

Cossara grinned. “The way your body is positioned toward me, combined with the regular flickering of your eyes toward the card, tell me that you do, in fact, want to play a game. You complain too much. That, too, gives you away. Be honest with yourself, Mez. You enjoy being defeated by me. Deep down there’s a part of you that—”

“I swear on the Archon’s balls, if you attempt to analyze me one more time…”

“Hm? What will happen?”

“Just wait and see.”

Cossara unwound the deck of cards, started to shuffle them. Mezamir would play. He always did, even if he never had a chance. It was hardly his fault. Very few people ever had a chance against Cossara in a game of Swords and Shields.

There were one hundred cards in a deck. Cossara finished shuffling, dealt each of them fifty. From the fifty, they each drew a hand of five. Her hand was a poor one. She tried to read Mezamir’s body for some clue as to his own hand, but the game was on now, and he, like all operatives, was a master of giving nothing away. Cossara likewise masked herself, since he’d also no doubt try to steal whatever information he could.

“You’ve doomed me already,” Mezamir lamented. “I swear, you must have some special shuffling technique to ensure you win. I wouldn’t put that past you at all.”

“I don’t need tricks in order to win, my love.”

“Well, you go first.”

Cossara played a card, defiant blademaster, with its six swords and three shields and a unique ability to attack more than once. A bold opening move, and an oppressive one if Mezamir didn’t have an answer for it.

He did, in fact, have an answer.

That was how they spent the next hour. They played three games in total, two of which Cossara won, sealing her victory for the day. Mezamir seemed pleased that he at least won once, which was better than he usually did.

Cossara began collecting the cards back up.

Somewhere behind her, a branch snapped.

She and Mezamir shot up to their feet at the exact same time. In a heartbeat, their swords were drawn, and they were side-by-side, ready to face an enemy together.

A lone figure strode out of the darkness, hands held up a sign of peace.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore the elaborate, golden plate armor of a Sun Knight. His blade was strapped across his back, grossly oversized and elegant, resembling a piece of art more than a weapon.

The Sun Knight carried his helmet under one arm, his face bare and exposed to the cool night air. His head was shaved in the manner of his order, as was his face. His eyes were a vivid blue, his face seemingly carved out of marble—albeit deeply scarred all over.

“You may put those blades away,” said the Sun Knight, “I mean you no harm.”

Cossara froze time.

It took nothing more than a thought and a slight exertion of her spirit. At once, everything stopped, including herself. Frozen in place, she examined the Sun Knight, searching for danger. He appeared to truly be one of them; the armor was authentic, bearing all the distinct, complex marks and sigils of the Archon’s elite warriors. Always theoretically possible that he was an imposter wearing real armor, but killing a Sun Knight and recovering their gear before it was reclaimed by other members of the order was just about impossible. So, most likely he was one of them. But that opened up questions. Sun Knight didn’t often travel alone. When they were dispatched from the capital on some mission or another, it was part of a kill team meant to obliterate a specific target. To see one now, alone, in the woods, was an incongruity that aroused her suspicions.

Twelve seconds had passed before Cossara decided there was nothing more she could learn from observation in stasis. With another thought, she resumed time.

Mezamir sheathed his blade, said, “Do you have a name?”

The Sun Knight peered closely at Cossara, curious. There was something about the way he was looking at her…did he know? Had he somehow sensed what had happened?

“Caitar,” said the Sun Knight. “That is my name. I am the one hundred and seventh Sun Knight.”

That gave Cossara brief pause. There were so few Sun Knight that each was assigned a number, which marked where they stood in the two century history of the order. This one, based on that number, had to be a member of the first very cohort created by the Archon.

Which meant that in two days, they had come across two high-ranking, very old members of the Autarchy. Seeking Hands were taught that there was no such thing as a coincidence.

“We're humble travelers,” Mezamir said, modulating his voice to sound as non-threatening as possible. “We don't want any trouble.”

Cossara averted her eyes from the Sun Knight, playing the role of an awed, frightened young woman in the presence of an Autarchy hero.

Caitar smiled coyly. “I know you're both Seeking Hands. There's no need to act. The three of us are loyal servants of the empire and have nothing to hide from one another.”

And yet, Cossara thought, the man was hiding something from them. His deception was so well hidden that it was hard for her to actually say what it was that gave him away. It was a deep, instinctive feeling.

“Does your presence here serve a purpose, Sun Knight?” Cossara asked.

The Knight frowned at them. Now she could tell that he knew they suspected something. Sun Knights were not subtle creatures, but rather blunt instruments directed at whatever targets needed to be obliterated.

“A question,” Caitar said finally. “Who did you meet with in Sytara?”

“Who said we met with anyone?”

“I do.”

As casually as though they were talking about the weather, Mezamir said, “You ought to know, friend, that as Seeking Hands, there are certain things we're not permitted to talk about.”

Caitar drifted forward. His agitation was palpable. The conclusion to this conversation was, to Cossara, painfully obvious. Two against one would ordinarily leave her feeling certain about victory, but she'd never fought a Sun Knight before, and knew their combat capabilities only by reputation. If their reputation was only halfway accurate, they were in trouble.

“We're done here,” Mezamir said. “Be on your way, friend.”

Maintaining eye-contact, the Sun Knight began to reach for the hilt of his sword.

Cossara controlled her breathing. She wouldn't go for her sword—too obvious, the Knight would already have mentally prepared for it. Instead, she had three knives hidden on her body, two of them envenomed. She'd reach for the one coated in kisar toxin, a powerful paralytic. All she'd need to do is draw any blood at all and within moments he'd be at their mercy. She glanced at Mezamir, could tell that he was considering his own personal armament of hidden weapons and poisons.

The Sun Knight drew his sword, moonlight catching its excessively long, bright edge. Complex geometric patterns were carved into the metal, accompanied by tiny, scrawled text. Supposedly, Archon Marak engraved a personal message into the weapon of every Sun Knight. Cossara had a second to wonder what their ruler had written for Caitar before the man was upon them.