Sister of the Sword

by Paul B. Thompson

  Mara had never trusted the Arkuden. Since the age of eight, when her family had given her over to the Sensarku, she had been steeped in the philosophy of Tiphan, “Tosen,” First Servant, of the Sensarku. The Arkuden always opposed the Tosen’s plans to improve Yala-tene and bring glory to the dragon and the Servers of the Dragon. The Arkuden, the Tosen said, acted as if he alone had the right to determine the destiny of Yala-tene. Her later disillusionment with Tiphan had not altered her feelings against Amero for blocking the Tosen’s wonderful dreams for a better world.

  Brother of Karada or not, the Arkuden was no friend. If not for him, Tiphan would never have left Yala-tene, her fellow Sensarku Penzar wouldn’t have been swallowed by the spirit stones on the plain, Elu the centaur wouldn’t have been murdered by elves, and she would never have been captured.

  Mara’s green eyes widened as the terrible truth crystallized in her mind: The Arkuden was to blame. He was to blame for all of it.

  A muffled voice came to her from the tent. Mara stretched out flat on the ground and put her ear to the hide wall.

  As usual, the Arkuden was doing the talking.

  *

  “I know this is hard, but we must face it. We can’t ignore it any longer.”

  “It’s not hard,” Karada said sharply. “Ask him what he wants.”

  Zannian tilted his head toward his sister. “I want to see Nacris.”

  “No. She’s fated to die, so consider her dead and go on.”

  The former raider chief brought his hands to his head and pushed the bandages back until his face was fully exposed. A single horizontal slash crossed both eyes and the bridge of his nose. The skin around the wound was swollen and mottled by red and purple bruises. He turned his head this way and that, obviously trying to see something, anything, and obviously failing.

  He snapped, “If you really wanted her dead, you would’ve slain her the day she was captured.”

  Karada found a gourd bottle and pulled the wooden plug out with her teeth. The spicy aroma of cider wafted through the tent.

  “She made a good hostage,” the nomad chieftain said, and took a long drink.

  “And now? How many days has it been since the battle ended?”

  “Eight,” said Amero.

  “So many? It’s hard to tell when you see neither sun nor stars.” Zannian sniffed the air and held out his hand. “Give me some cider.”

  She gave him the gourd. He drank deeply from it.

  “Let’s not talk about Nacris,” Amero said. “She is doomed. But you may yet be saved.”

  Zannian wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I tried to destroy you. Why would you want to save me?”

  Astonished, Amero said, “Because you’re my brother!”

  “The only brothers I knew are burning now on that pyre.”

  Karada made a disgusted noise. “This is useless. Are you sure you want to let this yevi-child live?” she asked Amero.

  “Yes.”

  “Kill me and be done with it,” Zannian said bitterly. “All the promises made to me turned out to be lies – the Master’s, that woman’s —” He couldn’t call Nacris “mother” any more.

  Amero insisted, “You’re young. Can you see no other way to live?”

  “Think you’ll make a villager out of me? I’ll fall on a knife first!”

  Amero crossed behind Zannian and plucked the cider gourd from his hand. He knelt on one knee beside him.

  “A good healer might have been able to save your eyes,” he said. “But our best healer’s dead. We sent him to talk terms with you, and you cut off his head. Does that mean anything to you, Menni?”

  “My name is Zannian!”

  Looking up at Karada, Amero said, “Our sister is Nianki. Do you remember that name at all?”

  Zannian was breathing hard, clearly distressed, but his voice was loud as he denied it. “I don’t remember either one of you! You’re nothing to me!”

  “You remember ‘The Endless Plain.’”

  “It’s just a song.”

  “A song our mother sang to us!” Amero put a hand on Zannian’s shoulder, his face pale and strained. “If you don’t remember, it’s my fault. You were just a baby, Menni, two summers old. I put you in a tree to keep you safe from the yevi, but that wasn’t enough. I should’ve kept you with me. I should’ve found a place for us both —”

  “Then you would’ve fallen into Sthenn’s hands or been killed,” Karada said bluntly.

  Amero sat back, cradling his head in his hands. “I can’t help the past, but I can give you a future.” Eyes flashing, he raised his head and added, “You were taken in arms. Your life belongs to the one who defeated you, Lord Balif. He’s given you to me. I say you shall remain in the Valley of the Falls for the rest of your life. Blind or sighted, you’ll learn how to live as a peaceful man of our village, and if you cause trouble – any trouble at all – I’ll give you back to Balif!”

  Karada stifled a grim smile at what she knew to be an empty threat. Zannian said nothing, so she punched him on the shoulder.

  “Say something, boy,” said Karada. “What it’ll be? If you want, I’ll lend you a knife to fall on right now.”

  Zannian’s expression changed from defiant to sly. He licked his parched lips, then said, “What happened to the black-haired girl, Beramun?”

  “She’s in camp,” Karada said.

  “Could I speak to her?”

  Amero shook his head hard, but his sister answered, “That’s up to her.”

  “I want to speak to Beramun and Nacris.”

  His siblings argued, but in the end, it was agreed: Zannian would be taken to Nacris. Karada would be present, and when she ordered the meeting at an end, Zannian would go without complaint. Later, Amero would ask Beramun if she cared to visit Zannian. It was entirely up to her whether she did.

  Amero touched his younger brother’s arm. “Don’t take me for a fool,” the Arkuden said. “I stood up to you in battle, and I won. If you make trouble or try to escape, I’ll deal with you. Brother or not, Yala-tene comes first.”

  Amero stood. “Let’s go back to the village.”

  “Leave him here,” Karada said. “He’s a wanderer, he’s better off in a tent than a stone hut.”

  Zannian shrugged. “All places look alike to me,” he said without humor.

  *

  The Arkuden left. Mara clung to the warm ground, bathed in angry sweat. Her thoughts were confused, muddled, but one phrase echoed in her head – I’ll give you back to Balif! How could he betray his brother, a fellow human, to the Silvanesti? Didn’t he know how they treated their captives? What kind of tyrant had the Arkuden become?

  Karada must be made to understand the enormity of the Arkuden’s words. Karada trusted her brother too much – and loved him unnaturally, Mara knew. That unnatural love, which blinded her to his true nature, was also the fault of the elves. Her Tosen had told her so.

  Chapter 17

  The great pyre burned itself out around dawn. The mound of ash and embers slowly lost its dull red aura, but the pall of smoke hovered over the valley like a noxious mushroom, held in by the Ember Wind raging above it. When the funeral fire finally winked out, the last one to leave the scene was Duranix, who had watched over the pyre to the last. He flew back to his cave.

  Amero wanted to talk to him, but his hoist had been destroyed during the raider attack. Silent calls for the dragon’s aid were ignored, so the only way for Amero to get inside was by the vent holes cut through the roof of the cave. He gathered vine rope from all over Yala-tene. He needed a great deal of it to descend to the cave floor from the high ceiling.

  Conditions were improving in the valley. Hunting parties returned with the last of the village’s missing children. Every one had been found. Not a single child was lost, because the older children took care of the little ones, hiding out in the foothills exactly as their parents had told them. Likewise, the children and old folks of Karada’s band returned, not only hale a
nd whole but staggering under the weight of fresh game and foraged food.

  Karada embraced her old friend Targun. “Well done, old man!” she said. “Any problems to report?”

  “None, chief,” he replied. “The country seems abandoned. All the time we were out there, we saw no one – not a human, not a centaur, not an elf. Just lots and lots of elk!”

  “Sounds good. í wish I’d been there.”

  The grizzled old plainsman regarded his chief curiously. “Was the fight not a good one?”

  “Ugly,” was all she would say about it.

  “When do we return to the plain?”

  Karada had been pondering this question herself. She’d imagined her band would fight, defeat the raiders, and depart immediately when they were done. Last time she was in Yala-tene, it was such a strain to be around Amero that she’d left as speedily as possible.

  Oddly, she did not feel that way now. The curse was still there, without doubt. She felt it skulking within her, like a hunger pang no meal could cure. But things were different now; the situation was more complicated. Amero had a woman of his own, a woman with whom he shared a history that didn’t include herself. There was Beramun, who had become like the daughter she’d never had. Balif too was a considerable distraction. These people filled her days and blunted the ache she felt from her compelled love for Amero.

  Lastly, there were Zannian and Nacris. Karada found it hard to care much about the fallen raider chief. She hardly knew him, and what she did know, she didn’t like. Still, he was her flesh and blood, and how he lived his life mattered, if only because Amero felt so strongly about him.

  Nacris was another matter entirely. She deserved death – even Amero agreed – but it was harder than Karada thought to condemn her. If they had met on the battlefield, sword to sword, Karada could have slain her joyfully. In her present state, crippled and deluded, there would be little honor in taking her life.

  Targun was still talking.

  “Eh? Forgive me, old man. I was elsewhere,” she told him.

  “I was asking: How long will we stay here?”

  She looked at the sky, still capped by the oppressive Ember Wind. According to reports from her scouts, the eastern passes and foothills were free of the life-draining wind, so the nomads could return to their beloved range any time they wished.

  “Three days,” she said impulsively. “We’ll leave in three days.”

  Targun looked disappointed. “So soon? I was hoping to feast the people of Yala-tene before we departed.”

  “So feast them. You have my good wishes.”

  Word was spread. In two days, a great feast would be held to celebrate the liberation of Yala-tene and the defeat of Sthenn and the raiders. The morning after the feast, Karada’s band would ride out.

  *

  Accompanied by Pakito, Karada entered the tent where Nacris was being held. A young nomad woman followed, bearing a steaming basin of water.

  Nacris was dirty from her confinement, and her hair was a mass of gray snarls. “Is it my day to die?” she said with strange glee, eyeing her visitors.

  “Not yet,” Karada retorted. “You’re to have a visitor. I thought you might want to clean up before he gets here.”

  “Who is it? Hoten? Tell him to go away.”

  “Hoten is dead.”

  “Then I certainly don’t want to see him!” Nacris suppressed a giggle.

  Karada sighed and turned to her towering comrade. “You see what she’s come to? Crazy as a sun-addled viper.”

  Pakito looked on sadly and said nothing. Many years ago he’d had a longing for Nacris. She’d been a spirited woman in those days, a doughty fighter and a magnificent rider, better on a horse than even Karada. Nacris had preferred Sessan. Pakito got over his infatuation and took Samtu as his mate (though everyone else knew it was Samtu who’d done the taking). The twisted, wretched creature before him was far from the impressive woman of his youth.

  Karada had the water bearer put the bowl in front of Nacris, then the girl gave her a small nub of pumice for scrubbing.

  Nacris sat up, her chains clinking. She dipped both hands in and carried warm water to her grimy face.

  “So,” she said, rubbing loose droplets from her eyes. “Who wants to see me, if not Hoten?”

  “Zannian.”

  Nacris’s hands froze, pressed against her cheeks. “Don’t lie, Karada!” she said angrily. “If Hoten’s dead, how can Zannian still live?”

  “He does, and he’s asked to see you. I told him he could, so long as I remain in the tent.”

  Nacris resumed washing, though her hands shook visibly. “It can’t be,” she muttered. “It can’t be. My boy would not live with defeat and disgrace —”

  “He’s not your boy!” Karada shouted so loudly that Pakito, Nacris, and the water girl all jumped. Her next words seemed filled as much with disgust as with anger. “His name is Menni, and he’s the son of Oto and Kinar, as am I!”

  Nacris’s thin lips drew back in a wide smile. “So you know? I pieced the tale together a long time ago, I did. How does it feel, Karada, to know one of your brothers killed the other – killed the one you love?”

  The nomad chief stepped forward, fists clenched. Pakito put a broad arm before her to halt her advance.

  With a visible effort, Karada mastered her anger and said a few words in Pakito’s ear. His heavy eyebrows climbed his high forehead, but when his chieftain frowned emphatically, he nodded and went out.

  Karada dismissed the water girl, then called, “Send the raider in!”

  Two armed nomads guided Zannian into the tent. At the sight of him, Nacris gasped.

  “What have you done to him?” she said hoarsely.

  In answer, Zannian pulled the bandages from his head. His awful wounds spoke louder than any words. The puffiness around his ruined eyes had subsided somewhat, but the bruises were still dark and the red line of the sword cut was crusted and scabbed.

  “Poor boy, poor boy,” crooned Nacris. “Karada did this to you?”

  “No,” he said. “The elf lord, Balif, did it in a fair duel.”

  “Poor boy... come closer.”

  Karada ordered, “Stand where you are.”

  Zannian advanced no farther but, groping about, sat down cross-legged, facing the sound of Nacris’s voice. Nacris regarded his awkward movements with obvious dismay.

  “Why did you pretend to be my mother?” he asked quietly.

  “It was Sthenn’s wish. I could not refuse. Later... I did it because I wanted to. You were a bright boy, Zanni, a great warrior. I was proud to be your mother.”

  “Not a great enough warrior,” he said. Tilting his head toward the nomad chief, he added, “Karada says you must die. I wonder why she hasn’t killed you yet?”

  Nacris snorted. “She can’t kill me! Sthenn foresaw my fate. Neither water, nor fire, nor stone shall kill me, and no man living shall strike me down.”

  Zannian laughed, but the pain of his wounds cut his black mirth short. “All your stratagems were for nothing!” he hissed. “Now you are the prisoner of your mortal enemy! You’re just a crazy, hateful old woman. Better you had drowned years ago when the bronze dragon threw you in the lake!”

  “A touching reunion,” Karada murmured, lip curling in disgust.

  “You’re hardly any better,” Zannian sneered. “I know why you let Nacris live: The hate you share for each other is so strong, so much a part of your spirits that neither of you can bear to live without it!”

  “I’m destined to kill Karada!” Nacris declared, trying to rise. Her missing leg and the heavy bronze chain brought her up short, and she subsided.

  “You’re destined to feed worms,” the nomad chief shot back.

  Just then, a muffled voice came from outside the tent. Karada peeked through the flaps.

  “Ah! Good. Another visitor for the hag.”

  Pakito had returned with Amero, who ducked inside and stood beside Karada. Brother and sister stared down
at Nacris without speaking.

  Nacris blinked rapidly. Her jaw worked, but no words came. Making strangled hissing sounds, she struggled again to stand.

  “Yes, he’s alive,” Karada said, pleased by the effect of her surprise. “Your green assassins failed. They killed the wrong man!”

  With a shriek, Nacris picked up the water basin and smashed it on the ground. She thrust a jagged shard at Amero. Though he was well beyond Nacris’s reach, Karada stepped between them, sword bared.

  Losing her balance, Nacris fell over Zannian, knocking him onto his back. The clay shard cut his cheek. He wrenched the fragment from her hand, and they rolled over several times, winding the chain around them both. Nacris seemed oblivious, howling her hatred for Amero and Karada all the while.

  “Pakito, separate them,” Karada said, appalled.

  “Stay back!” Zannian shouted, gritting his teeth as he fought to pin the raging woman beneath him. To Nacris he said, “Be still, mother, and I’ll put you out of your misery!”

  “No!” shouted Karada and Amero in unison. Both moved toward Zannian.

  But before they could reach them Nacris had worked loose the stake holding her chains to the ground. With a shrill cry, she whipped the heavy wooden peg into her free hand and smashed Zannian in the head. His body went slack. Nacris heaved herself to one knee, facing Karada and Amero in triumph.

  Pakito had his stone mace in his hand, but Karada ordered him back.

  “Give me a true weapon,” Nacris demanded, panting. “Let me die like a warrior!”

  Karada’s features twisted. “You’re not a warrior,” she said coldly. “You’re the mother of three dozen and one snakes!”

  The bronze blade went up. Nacris had her fetters clutched to her chest, protecting her. Karada turned her blade and brought it down with all the rage and pain of her lifetime. When it ceased its shining arc, Nacris’s head fell from her shoulders.

  Nomads summoned by the shouting burst into the tent. They saw their chief, the Arkuden, and Pakito standing over the erstwhile leader of the raiders. The headless body of the prisoner Nacris lolled at their feet.