Sister of the Sword

by Paul B. Thompson

  Suitably attired, the two elves departed for the humans’ feast. The rest of the Silvanesti worked to complete preparations for their journey home.

  *

  A lone figure lifted its head from the soot-blackened ruins of the foundry. Driven out by Karada, fearful of the Arkuden and his supporters, Mara had tucked herself away in a forgotten corner of the foundry. She’d watched Amero converse with Balif but was too far away to register their words. When the Arkuden left, she crawled forward to overhear the elf lord speak to his followers.

  Her time as a Silvanesti slave had given Mara only a rudimentary comprehension of the Elvish language, but she understood bits and pieces of what Balif said, and she had glimpsed the cache of nomad weapons. The words whirled confusingly through her head like a dust storm on the plains, coalescing with what she had seen, forming a realization dark and terrifying: The Arkuden must be in league with the elves. He had traded the secret of making bronze for the nomads’ bows and arrows. He was a traitor, not only to the human cause, but to his own sister.

  Karada must be told. The knowledge would cause her pain, but ultimately she would be grateful to know the truth. Mara would be forgiven and restored to her rightful place at Karada’s feet, a beloved daughter of the great nomad chief, and together they would drive the rapacious Silvanesti from the plains forever.

  In the midst of this satisfying vision, Mara frowned. The Arkuden had seemed in a great hurry just now. He was obviously bent on some urgent scheme. Silvanesti treachery knew no bounds. They could be planning anything with the Arkuden. Anything at all. Quick action was needed.

  Her heart pounded. Resolution flowed through her limbs.

  She would do it. She would spare every human on the plain from enduring what she had suffered at the hands of the elves. Most of all, she would save her beloved Karada.

  Chapter 20

  Plainsmen say Soli, the white moon, is a messenger of change. It hugs the horizon when it first appears and rises into the open sky reluctantly. In spring and autumn it ascends modestly and in winter hardly appears at all above the mountains rimming the Valley of the Falls. Because of its habits, the plainsmen say Soli brings rain in the spring by climbing higher in the sky to pour water on the thirsty soil below, and it carries the green leaves away in the fall (sinking to the its low, winter-time position). Only in summer did Soli linger near the zenith of heaven, keeping temperatures high. It never made sense to Amero that a cool moon rather than the hot sun should be blamed for summer’s heat, but that was the lore he’d learned from his mother, a long time ago.

  Now, standing with Lyopi between two bonfires, surrounded by the whole of Yala-tene, the nomad band, former raiders, a highborn elf, and Duranix, Amero found himself sweating. It was the fires, he told himself, or maybe all the wine he’d drunk —

  Be honest, Duranix’s silent voice said inside his head. You’re nervous!

  I guess I am, Amero replied.

  The nomad pipers finished their tune, and silence fell over the assembly. No one seemed quite sure what to do next, so Balif, playing the ignorant foreigner, asked, “What happens now?”

  “We declare ourselves mates before the oldest person present,” said Lyopi. “That would be Jenla.”

  The gardener, leaning on Tepa’s arm, said mischievously, “I’m not the oldest one here.” She stared pointedly at Balif.

  “But I’m not a human,” Balif objected. “Besides, Farolenu is older than I – by two and a half decades.”

  Amero cleared his throat. “If we’re going to be truthful, there’s one here older even than the elves.” He looked up at the dragon, smiling. “You’re past two hundred, aren’t you?”

  “Well past,” agreed Duranix.

  “Will you hear our declaration?”

  The bronze dragon nodded, a habit he’d acquired since knowing Amero. His scales rang with the gesture.

  “Come forward and face us,” Amero said.

  Duranix clomped toward them, scattering villagers in his way. Framed by the twin bonfires, his metallic scales took on the color of fire itself. He opened his wings to their fullest extent, some forty paces from tip to tip and inflated his broad chest with air.

  Amero winked at Lyopi. His old friend was showing off.

  “I am Amero, son of Oto and Kinar,” the Arkuden shouted, “brother of Nianki and Menni, called the Dragon’s Son!”

  There was some muttering at the mention of Menni, but the declaration went on.

  Lyopi, her chestnut hair free of its usual braid and falling in shining waves to her waist, spoke. “I am Lyopi, daughter of Bydas and Ensamen, sister of Unar.”

  Her voice broke on the name of her murdered brother, and Amero took her hand, squeezing it gently.

  In unison they said, “Know all that we are mated, that all we have belongs to both of us!”

  They bowed together to Duranix. “Such a lot of trouble just to breed,” he said in his booming voice. Some of the nomads laughed.

  “You should say, ‘I know you, Amero and Lyopi’” Amero prompted.

  “I know you, Amero and Lyopi,” the dragon repeated dutifully. “Stubborn, curious, passionate, and loyal are you both. Salute!”

  He threw back his head and let his jaws gape. Blue-white lightning erupted from his mouth, crackling straight up into the starry sky. The crowd shifted and exclaimed at the display of power.

  Amero’s own awed expression, as he stared up at the bolt lancing into the stars, dissolved into a frown of characteristic curiosity. Where did it go? he wondered. Did the bolt travel forever until it struck something, or did it fade out in time, like a spark carried aloft from a campfire?

  Lyopi tugged at his arm and whispered, “Remember me? I’m your mate.”

  They embraced and kissed to the cheers of the crowd. The flute players found some drummers among the villagers, and they struck up a fast melody. Round dances sprang up in the crowd as well-wishers flowed past Amero and Lyopi.

  Balif was one of the first. “Good fortune to you,” the elf said sincerely. “It’s been quite an experience for me, coming here. Remind me to thank Karada for capturing us!”

  “Peace to you, Lord Balif,” said Amero. “Peace in the truest sense. I hope the war between you and my sister is over for good.”

  “We shall see. Farewell to you both.”

  Farolenu clasped hands with Amero and presented Lyopi with a small golden charm on a length of woven grass twine. It glittered in the firelight. Amero tied it around Lyopi’s neck as she examined it.

  “It’s pretty,” she said, pleased. “A beetle?”

  “A spider,” said Farolenu. “The symbol of my smithing guild.”

  He and Balif were soon swallowed in the crowd. Old friends streamed past, wishing the newly mated couple well – Adjat the potter, Montu the cooper, Hulami, Targun, Pakito, and Samtu. The amiable giant all but wrung Amero’s hand off, he was so enthusiastic.

  “Being mated is the best thing in the world!” he enthused. “Better than a fine horse or a straight spear!”

  “Good to know you rate so highly,” Lyopi said to Samtu.

  The stout nomad woman eyed her towering mate. “He didn’t say it was better than elk steak. That’s what he loves most, you know.”

  “Now, Sammi —” Pakito began. Laughing, she pulled him away so others could approach.

  Beramun emerged from the press with Harak. Her left arm was in a sling, and she looked wan. Amero had heard about developments between them from Karada, but this was the first time he’d seen them together.

  “Thank you for everything,” Amero said to Beramun. “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for you.”

  “I only did what others tried to do. Fate and the Great Spirits let me find Karada.”

  “I didn’t mean that, though you were wonderful on your mission, too. I meant you refused me, and for that I’m grateful.”

  “As am I,” said Harak with a grin.

  “Will you be joining Karada’s band?”
Lyopi asked.

  “I go where Beramun goes,” he said simply. “I don’t much care where that is.”

  Beramun said, “I don’t know what we’ll end up doing, but we are leaving with Karada tomorrow.”

  She and Lyopi kissed each other’s cheek, then she did the same to Amero.

  They exchanged words with Bahco, Hekani, and almost the entire crowd present. The only conspicuous absence was Karada. To Amero’s query, Bahco said he hadn’t seen his chief since before moonrise.

  Amero realized it was hard for his sister to see him mated and happy. She herself would likely never know a moment such as this.

  “I must find Nianki,” he said in Lyopi’s ear. “I need to see her.”

  She understood. “Try dark and quiet places. If I were Karada, that’s where I’d be right now.”

  He promised to return to Lyopi’s house – their house – before too late. Giving his hand a squeeze, she let him go. Amero slipped into the happy throng and worked his way away from the noise and fire.

  He called silently to Duranix, Have you seen Karada?

  Not lately, but she’s near. I can sense her presence.

  Amero stopped in his tracks. You can?

  My senses have grown sharper with the years. Nowadays, her thoughts seem as loud as yours were when we first met.

  Dust swirled over the festive mob. Amero looked up and saw Duranix had taken wing.

  Going home? he asked the dragon.

  Hunting. The trifles you served at your feast only teased my appetite. There’s a great herd of elk a few leagues from here. I’m off to roast a few....

  Good luck, thought Amero. Let’s talk tomorrow. I have new ideas for Yala-tene I need your help to accomplish.

  Of course you do. Till then.

  “Until then,” Amero murmured aloud.

  The vast bulk of the dragon blotted out the stars as he winged away to the southwest. Amero felt great gladness as he watched the departure. Duranix’s responses were more like his old self. Once he became involved in daily life in the village again, the wanderlust of recent days was sure to leave him.

  Since Bahco said he hadn’t seen Karada in their camp, Amero started his search with the lakeshore from the west baffle back to the old foundry. He saw the Silvanesti sleeping on their bedrolls outside the broken foundry walls, but he found no sign of his sister. Doubling back, he went as far as the old raider camp and the stone towers of the fallen bridge. His feet crunched over the dross of battle – broken spears and throwing sticks, scraps of leather armor. Compared to the life and noise of the feast, the site of Zannian’s camp was like a graveyard. Nianki wasn’t there, so he quickly left.

  The only remaining possibility was the nomad camp. Perhaps she had returned there after Bahco left for the mating ceremony. Amero skirted the fringes of the celebration, as he didn’t want to be delayed by well-meaning greetings.

  The camp itself was calm. A few dogs tied in front of their masters’ tents barked at him as he passed. At one spot he saw something he hadn’t seen before – a willow rack laden with cured yevi hides. The yevi pack that had accompanied the raiders to the valley had been devastated during the siege, and before Karada’s arrival most had been killed or run off. Nomad hunters searched the neighboring valleys after the final battle, killing every yevi they found. Their gray, shaggy skins were too coarse to wear, but Amero knew why Karada’s people saved the hides. Posted in the high passes, yevi pelts served as a potent warning to other would-be marauders.

  Amero walked through the camp. Arriving at last at her tent, he found Karada. She was seated by the fire and draped in her white wolfs robe. Their blind brother sat a few steps away, a trencher of meat before him. Amero smiled. Karada must have brought him the food.

  “Nianki,” he said. She didn’t look up, but Zannian tilted his head and turned sightless eyes toward his elder brother.

  “Is it done?” she asked, poking the low flames with a stick.

  “It is. I am mated at last.”

  “Good for you,” said Zannian. “Is Beramun with you? heard she agreed to see me.”

  “I’m alone.”

  Amero crossed the large tent and sat down at the hearth across from his sister. She dropped her stick into the flames.

  “I wish you’d been there,” he said. “The whole valley turned out to see us. As the oldest creature in the valley, Duranix played the elder’s part.”

  “We’ll be gone by midday tomorrow,” Karada said abruptly. “I wanted to be out before then, but Bearclaw Gap is too narrow to allow the band to ride out more than two abreast.”

  “There’s no hurry, you know. Stay longer if you want.”

  “No, it’s time to go. I’ve stayed long enough, and I can’t bear to see you —” She cut herself off, jaw muscles jumping as she clenched her teeth.

  “You both sound strange,” Zannian said, yawning. “What’s wrong? You’re talking like a jilted lover, Karada.”

  “Shut up,” she told him.

  “Hmph,” Zannian said, yawned widely, and pushed his trencher aside. He curled up on a bearskin with his back to them and soon was snoring.

  “I thought he’d never sleep,” she grumbled. “I put herbs in his wine – the same ones I used to soothe Beramun.”

  “Don’t worry about him. I’ll make a gardener of him yet.”

  She looked him in the face for the first time. “Don’t be a complete fool, will you, Amero? Brother or not, he’s a savage, bloody killer and will be again if he gets the chance.”

  “People change.”

  “No, they don’t. Have you forgotten so soon what he tried to do to your village?”

  Now it was Amero’s turn to look away. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Besides, Lyopi won’t let me do anything stupid.”

  Mentioning his new mate was a mistake. Nianki brought her fist down on a hearthstone, splitting her knuckles. Amero rose, expressing concern.

  “Stop!” she said, holding up her bleeding hand. “Pain helps sometimes. I found that out long ago. Don’t try to comfort me.”

  Amero sat down with a thump. Her calm, flat statement – pain helps sometimes – sent a chill down his back.

  “I only want to be a good brother,” he said at last.

  “You are good. Most brothers wouldn’t have anything to do with a tormented, unnatural sister like me. But you’re always kind.” She covered her eyes with her hands. “Sometimes that just makes it harder. Your kindness can be as bitter as Zannian’s hatred.”

  The tent was quiet, save for the crack and pop of the fire. Into the awkward silence, Amero said, “What if I asked Balif for help? An elf used spirit power to inflict this curse on you. Perhaps another elf can cure you. I know he’ll help if he can. He and I have become friends.”

  Nianki lowered her hands and gazed wonderingly at Amero. She laughed, a short, harsh bark of sound.

  “Merciful spirits! He’s not your friend! He’s an honorable enemy, no more. Besides, I don’t want all of Silvanost to know my problems.”

  “They may already. Vedvedsica’s in disgrace, Balif says. His past doings are a public scandal. If there’s a chance Balif could help —”

  “Enough! I don’t want to talk about it any more! I will be fine.” With effort she added in a calmer tone, “Go home, Amero. I’m sure your new mate wonders where you are.”

  He circled the hearth, bent down, and took her under the arms, dragging her to her feet. Nianki pulled out of his grip easily, though she looked a bit flushed.

  “Farewell, sister. I suppose I won’t see you tomorrow.”

  “No. I’ll send Zannian to you.”

  “I’ll take care of him.”

  She nodded. He clenched his empty hands into fists, resisting the urge to embrace her.

  “Peace to you, Nianki, for all your life,” he said and left the tent. He didn’t hear her murmured response.

  “Peace to you, Arkuden. Peace forever.”

  *

  The feast had broken
up by the time Amero left his sister. Small bands of nomads and villagers carried on earnestly, but the majority had gone to bed. The great bonfires were heaps of ashes now, with a few bright embers winking through. Heat shimmered above the firepits, blurring the cold stars. Soli was high, gathering in the offering of heat, saving it for the next sweltering summer day.

  Amero walked faster. He felt very guilty for having left Lyopi so long, on this night of all nights. Oh, well, he could spend the next decade or two making it up to her. The thought made him grin as he climbed the mound of rubble outside the north baffle.

  Compared to the open valley, the streets of Yala-tene were dim and close. By day the stone houses soaked up heat from the sun and remained warm all night. In the winter this was a blessing, but in summer it was close to intolerable. Many villagers abandoned their houses in the warmest weather and slept outside. Some, like Hekani, preferred to camp outside the walls most nights, so long as no rain was falling.

  The route Amero followed back to his and Lyopi’s house was deserted. He saw no one on the way, met no families sleeping on the cooler dirt path. By Soli’s light he could see the crossing paths ahead. To the right was the lane leading home. Sweating from the sultry night and his brisk pace, Amero decided to detour long enough to get a dipper of cool water from the cistern at the Offertory.

  As he crossed the lane, he heard the soft scrape of leather on stone. He glanced around and saw nothing. The shadows were too deep.

  No need to be so jumpy, he chided himself. There were no Jade Men left, seeking his blood.

  The outer walls of the Offertory shone in the moonlight. Lutar was long set, so the pure white light of Soli was bright on the white stones. The upper courses of the wall had been mined away during the siege, but enough was left to shine like a beacon in the night. Amero went, inside to the cistern. The Sensarku’s drinking gourd was still hanging on its peg. He stirred the water, then filled the dipper.

  Clink. Metal on stone.

  “Hello?” he called. “Is someone there?”

  No answer. He drank the water and returned the gourd to its place.