On The Edge of Blades (Chapter 1.5)

Lady Lirael Reina Turgour slipped into the dark robes of a Bladebound warrior. Her short blonde hair was pulled into a bun. The hood hung over her head and the shadows painted her face in a thousand strokes of darkness. She would not be recognized.

Silently, Lirael cracked open one of her bedroom windows. It was a long way down. She was of the noble House Turgour, and her lavish bedroom sat on the fourth and highest floor of her father’s manor.

Lirael grabbed her daggers from the mahogany table that sat beside her downy mattress. A rush of power struck her as she wrapped her fingers around the white dagger- the other black one was mostly for show.

Looking out the window, it was late at night and the streets were all but empty. Nonetheless, Lirael’s eyes scanned the darkness; she could not be seen, not now.

A rope wrapped around her bedframe, dangling down into the faintly lit street below. She sheathed her daggers.

Her boots brushed the stone like feathers as she rappelled down the wall. And when she reached the dimly lit street below she was already moving.

Lirael raced through the shadows. Her black cloak billowed behind her in a cloud of darkness. She passed a flower shop and coughed, inhaling the thick odor. A drop of sweat fell from her face. Eventually, she reached her destination.

The Bladebound guildhall stood equal to any noble manor in The City with its towering walls and oaken doors. To Lirael it was almost a second home. She darted through one of the many side entrances, beginning the short walk to the vault.

Lirael did not need a light to know where she was going. She had explored the many halls since she was a young girl.

She was the third daughter of Lord Turgour, and custom was to send thirdborn children to the guilds- a matter of alliances and trust more than anything.

Yet, despite her years of training, she felt no deep allegiance to the guild- at least no allegiance that consumed her.

I am a noble, a descendant of the Founders, Lirael thought, And Syra, is nothing, less than nothing- a Pythmé. She cringed to herself just for thinking the derogatory epithet. Not all of the bottom layer were horrible but there were some deserved their status.

Lirael’s eyes scanned the darkness even though she knew there would be no guards. What she was going to do was wrong. Theft. Assault. It was an attack full of spite and malice- something her father would have done. But, she couldn’t let Syra disappear, not after what happened. No, after all these years she would have revenge.

She had arrived at the Vault- the only area of the guildhall that was guarded.

Five young Bladebounds stood watch. Although, stood may have been the wrong word as four of the makeshift guards slept peacefully on the floor. And, the lone guard who remained on his feet looked as if a light breeze could blow him over.

Lirael absorbed herself in the binding, the white blade almost glowing in her left hand. Pushing on the connection between herself and the weapon, Lirael shot the blade spinning through the darkness. The butt of her weapon met the young Bladebounds head, and a dull thud resounded through the hallway. The boy joined the rest of the guards on the floor.

Creeping past the guards, Lirael extinguished the oil lamp that hung above the Vault’s heavy door.

Lirael knew she there would be little time before the young guard regained consciousness and moved quickly. She rushed into the spacious room. The cold space smelled of nothing and was constructed of damp stone bricks. Many guild items that had no other place were littered about- quotas, uncashed specie notes, artifacts found in raids, and the hilt of a sword.…

It was a black undamaged blade, uniform and standard in every way- something the guild would give a Pythmé.

With a gentle pull Lirael freed the blade from the papers that had accumulated atop it like a thick layer of snow. It was a black sword, undamaged, uniform and standard in every way- something the guild would give a Pythmé. Yet, Lirael had many memories of the weapon, and they were not fond. It had been the tool that defeated her time and time again, made her look pathetic and foolish. It was quite the bizarre irony that the blade was critical to her success.

Lirael wrapped a gloved hand around the cold hilt and turned to leave. She walked out. The young guard had just regained conscious. She crept behind him and, as he rose franticly from the floor, smashed the butt of the knife against his head once more.  

She wiped the steadily beading sweat from her brow…

Having exited the guildhall, Lirael raced through the streets. It was still dark at night and quiet streets remained empty, yet she felt that a thousand eyes were watching her.

The black sword hung over shoulder on a makeshift strap. It thumped against her back on the strap over her shoulder as she ran- another reminder.

Have to get home, Lirael thought. They’ll be looking.

She coughed once more, passing the flower shop. The hood still covered her head, but more and more drops of sweat fell to the street. Lirael turned a sharp right and reached the manor…

Beneath the gloves she could feel the rope. It was in good condition but rough- something a sailor would use. Of course, she had only heard of sailors in passing tales. Tales of before the Founders raised the forest. Her tutor Jamiel once mentioned such things,

“There was a time,” he had told her. “An unmoving river so wide that the other side cannot be seen. And there are stories of men on horses of wood and timber and cloth, that ran on the whims of the many winds. Sailors they were called.”

Lirael never believed Jamiel’s stories, but she liked to imagine the sailors on the Great River. Beaten down by gales that Jamiel told her were everlasting. It was a valiant albeit fantastical image…

Lirael climbed through the window. With great haste, she slipped out of her robes and stashed the sword away. She pulled up the rope and began to shut the framed old glass, but something caught her eye. It seemed like hallucination, but for an instant, a black silhouette appeared on an adjacent rooftop. Lirael slammed the window shut.

For several minutes she watched the rooftop but saw only shadows. Lirael thought, It’s just my fear manifesting. It was a perfect setup, no one would suspect me.

And these thoughts were what eased Lirael to an uncomfortable sleep. She remembered the steps of a setup. One of the few things her father had taught her. Motive. Evidence. Cover.  

A Bladebound weapon was only valuable to the wielder. To Lirael, the sword was no different than any other. Yet, for Syra it would be incredibly powerful. Motive.

Syra left the guild a month ago, and no one was quite sure as to why. It certainly was strange. No one had left their guild before- not a Pythmé at least.

Lirael recalled another gem of her father’s cold wisdom, “People hate what they do not understand,” he had said. “Use that against them.”

Evidence.

She had worn the robes- the same that any Bladebound would wear. And, she was a noble. A noble would not plot against a Pythmé; it did not make sense. Cover.

Motive. Evidence. Cover. Motive. Evidence. Cover, Lirael thought to herself. The words were solid, sound, logical. Yet, the silhouette still haunted her. Like the rumors of monsters in the lower layers the silhouette was not real, yet she could not shake it from her mind. Motive. Evidence. Cover…

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This is chapter 1.5. It is meant to be included with chapter 1 but I didn't have enough words :).