“I’ve had enough lies for a lifetime.” Vhalla’s eyes drifted upward.
Gianna paused, searching Vhalla’s face. She took a deep breath before beginning. “The Knights of Jadar have been around for over one-hundred and fifty years, and they weren’t always the hushed organization they are now, zealots clinging to the old ways. The stories tell of a different time. A time not so long ago, when they would ride in the streets and women would reach for them, men would cry their names.”
Vhalla leaned forward in her chair. The way Gianna told her story had a certain reverence, a nostalgia for something that Vhalla had no real connection with. Gianna couldn’t have been more than a young child at the start of the war in the West and the fall of the knights.
“They were the best of the best. They protected the weak and fought for Mhashan, defending our way of life. To be counted among their ranks was the highest honor.”
Vhalla bit her tongue on the fact that the Knights had put countless Windwalkers to death long before, during the Burning Times, at the will of the king who had founded them.
“But when the last King of Mhashan was slain, when the Ci’Dan family bent knee before the Emperor, and when Princess Fiera married into his family . . . The Knights were spurned. They tried to raise a rebellion. The princess and Lord Ophain did their best to discourage such, but they were fighting a losing battle.”
“Why?” Vhalla’s food was forgotten.
“The Knights claimed to have the Sword of Jadar.” Vhalla shook her head, indicating she didn’t know what the woman was speaking of. “King Jadar was a great Firebearer, but only passed his magic to one of his sons.”
“Magic isn’t in the blood; it can’t be passed on.” A fact Vhalla knew all too well from being born from two Commons.
“No . . .” Gianna agreed half-heartedly. “That’s true, but . . . There’s something special about the magic that lives in families. Certainly, sorcerers are born to Commons, but there’s usually magic somewhere in the family tree. It’s not impossible, but it is less common to find it without.
“Either way, King Jadar was said to have crafted a sword that harnessed his power and gave it to one of his sons. That son became the leader of the Knights of Jadar, and as long as he wielded the sword he was rumored to be undefeatable.”
“So what happened to the sword?” Vhalla asked.
“Who knows?” Gianna shrugged. “I doubt it was even real to begin with. King Jadar is quite the legend in his own right.”
Vhalla pursed her lips, a physical reminder to keep silent. Gianna was as proud as most Westerners she’d ever met. While she was fairly forward-thinking, enough so to not harbor any hate toward Vhalla as a Windwalker, Vhalla didn’t want to push the woman’s kindness by speaking ill of the infamous Western king.
“What happened to the Knight’s rebellion?” Vhalla asked.
“I assume they tired of it.” Gianna clearly had not given it much thought. “After the death of our princess, no one in the West thought much about anything for a while.”
Gianna didn’t speak of the Knights again after that, and Vhalla didn’t ask. She did, however, return the next morning to The Knights’ Code, scouring for any mention of a sword, of the will of Jadar, anything. Two days of tedious translations yielded nothing other than rankling her fraying nerves.
“Gianna,” Vhalla called and stood. The woman appeared from upstairs. “We’re running low on ink. I’m going to buy more.”
“I’ll give you coin.”
“No need.” Vhalla shook her head, grabbing her bag off a peg from behind the desk.
“You could at least let me pay you.” Gianna placed her hands on her hips. “You’ve worked for weeks.”
“I have gold.” Vhalla patted her bag. “And I used all the ink for personal reasons.”
“Can’t argue with either,” Gianna said lightly.
Vhalla slipped out of the store and onto the dusty street, adjusting her hood to hide her Eastern brown hair. It was average by many Eastern standards, but practically golden compared to the black hair of Westerners. The Crossroads held all peoples, sizes, and shapes. But the past few times Vhalla had been to the market she was beginning to notice more soldiers returning home from the warfront, and the last thing she wanted to be was recognized.