Lhaurel nodded, unable to articulate her words as she gulped down air.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked. He shuffled over to one of the bins and dropped the wooden practice swords inside.
“Kaiden brought me.”
“No, girl, I’m not talking about here with the Roterralar. I’m asking if you know why you’re here with me right now?”
She shook her head. Hadn’t she just asked him why she was here?
“Khari wants me to make you a sword,” he said, voice becoming quiet and raspy again. “The fool woman thinks you’ve got enough promise to be one of the warriors. Well, maybe she’s right. Rare to find a woman fresh from the clans that knows the basic forms. Knows them badly, but knows them.”
“Badly?”
He ignored her. “Do you know what it takes to make a sword? Heat and pounding. Blood, sweat, and tears. Metal has to be thrown into the fire until it gets so hot that it can’t bear another moment in the coals. And then it gets beaten down. Shaped. Harder metals take more beating and more heat. They get abused more, but they make by far the finer blades. And the proper fuel creates the proper heat. Everything has a cost, has a price to be paid. That is the second thing you should remember.” He peered at her, eyes sharp and penetrating.
Lhaurel stared back at him blankly. He’s insane.
The man rolled his eyes and shuffled around the furnace to the small opening that led deeper into the chamber. He muttered something under his breath, running one hand through his tufty, grey hair. His bad leg, the left one, dragged along in the sand, leaving a furrow in the ground.
“You coming, girl?” he asked.
She hesitated for a moment but then ran after him.
The heat intensified the closer that she got to the furnace, rising almost to an unbearable level when she tried to hurry through the narrow opening between it and a row of counters upon which various tools or unfinished works of metal or leather lay. She was already covered in sweat, but it poured anew from the intense heat. Lhaurel cursed softly as she hurried past the forge and into the room behind it.
Despite the heat blazing against her back, the contents of the space halted her in her tracks in stunned amazement. Long spears by the hundreds leaned against the sandstone walls. Racks upon racks of swords were neatly arranged in long rows, the weapons glistening and polished as if new. Dozens of bins rested against one of the walls, but even with the bins and racks the room was arranged so that the center was completely bare of furnishing, leaving a large swath of clean, reddish sand. The back wall was also bare, devoid of any weaponry or ornamentation of any kind.
Lhaurel chewed on her bottom lip. It was incongruous to have one wall completely clear when every other available space was covered. Her eyes studied the reddish sandstone surface, trying to identify anything out of the ordinary. There, along the seam where the walls met each other and along the ceiling. There was a faint line that shone red like the eyelids did when gazing at the sun with closed eyes. A quick scan revealed cleverly hidden stone hinges along the left side. The whole wall was a door, one that opened out into the sands beyond.
The smith waited for her near one of the racks, his expression one of knowing humor. He leaned against his right side, easing the pressure on his bad leg, though it had not hampered him in the slightest when they had sparred. Lhaurel still felt a little winded from the encounter. It was either that or the sight of the weaponry making her hyperventilate.
She wanted to laugh. What the Sidena warriors would have given to be in this place now. The Warlord would be stunned. Taren—well, Taren would have taken everything he could get. Maybe to kill off another one of his wives. She smirked. Neither of them was here now. She was. She took a moment to bask in the irony and triumph of it.
She turned to the smith, her voice holding a touch of wonder. “Who are you?” she asked.
“They call me Beryl,” he said with a little mock bow. “And you are Lhaurel.” His tone warped the humor into sarcasm. “Now, do you want to come over here and pick a sword or do you want me to simply pick one for you?”
Lhaurel started, absently brushing wet hair back over her ears. “Didn’t you just say that Khari wanted you to make me one?”
Beryl shook his head and snorted, throwing up his hands. “All you new recruits are the same,” he said. “You think that making a sword is a simple matter, something that only takes a few hours. Well, you’re wrong. I just told you all about it. It is an art, a craft that must be studied and practiced again and again until it becomes a part of you. The work becomes an outward expression of someone’s heart and soul. That doesn’t happen overnight. That doesn’t happen in a fortnight. So again, do you want to come over here and pick a sword, or should I?”
Lhaurel hesitated, unsure of how to respond after his long-winded tirade. He hadn’t answered the question that she’d asked. Or rather, Lhaurel was sure that he thought that he had, but not in a way that made any sense to her.
Beryl grimaced and threw his hands up in the air with a muttered, “Fine, then. I’ll do it.” He continued to mutter under his breath as he limped down the rows of sword racks.
Lhaurel chewed on her bottom lip and cocked her head to the side. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to indicate that she didn’t want to choose her own sword. She had merely been trying to figure out the man’s answer.
“Here you are, then.”
The blacksmith’s voice right beside her ear sounded like the blast of a hunting horn. A hand flew to her chest as she turned, her heartbeat racing. Beryl held out a sheathed sword, hilt facing her. She reached out a hand that was shaking—either from the adrenaline that still raced through her blood or anticipation—wrapped it around the hilt, and pulled the sword free.
Straight and only sharp along one edge, the blade shone with a luster that defied the dull grey metal from which it was made. It came to a wicked point, and the hilt was wrapped in a thin wire to aid the grip. The cross guard was a single round piece of metal, unadorned and simple. It was beautiful.
“Take it and get out of here,” Beryl said, proffering the sheath and a belt that had been worked in silver to appear like a shufari.
Lhaurel took the belt, trying hard to focus on the questions that she knew she should be asking. “Why are you giving this to me? I’m new here, and you can’t trust me. I might as soon kill you as anything else.”
Beryl gaped at her, the first real look of genuine emotion that Lhaurel had seen on his face. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I’m making you a sword. Takes a long time, making a sword. Use this one until then. What did you think you were going to do when chosen to come here? Eat fruit and sip wine all day? And you’re nowhere near good enough for anyone here to worry about.”
“How in the seven hells am I supposed to know?”
“Not my problem,” Beryl said, making a dismissive gesture with his hands. “Now take the sword and get out. I’m sure someone will find you and know what to do with you. Well, maybe not.” He paused, his brow furrowing above his bushy eyebrows. “They’ve cracked your shell, girl, but you’re not broken just yet, are you?”
“Broken?”
Beryl straightened suddenly, seeming to tower over her even though he was far shorter than she. He made dismissive gesture with one hand. “Leave me in peace.”
Lhaurel opened her mouth to ask another question, but Beryl’s expression tightened and he raised a massive hand, index finger extended to point toward the exit.
“Get out!”
Lhaurel left, but when she reached the door she came face to face with Kaiden.
“Could you move out of my way?” she said.
“Not even a ‘please’? I brought you here to become part of something greater, to be part of the protectors and not the protected. Here you can hold a sword in your hands and not be worried about being killed. Here you can learn to fight and kill genesauri. Here you can learn what equality means and the true price of freedom.”
“
Could you get out of my way, please?” Lhaurel said with a thin smile.
Kaiden snorted loudly and folded his arms. “You’re as stubborn as an old goat, aren’t you?”
Lhaurel opened her mouth to respond, her back stiff and her face twisted with anger and guilt, but a long brazen sound rolled through the passageway and echoed off the walls. Kaiden cursed and grabbed her by her barely healed left wrist, his grip strong enough to bring a squawk of protest to her lips.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, trying to pull free, though the sword in her hand got in the way.
Kaiden spun toward her, jaw forming a hard line and brow furrowing in concentration. There was such intensity in the gaze it made Lhaurel pause.
“There’s a sandstorm coming, you idiot,” he said. “We’ve got to find cover. Come on.” His words slurred together in his rush. “Sands blow through these passages with enough force to rip the hide from your bones.”
A few quick steps took him farther down the passage, where he stopped and turned back, dancing on the balls of his feet. His eyes flashed with irritation, but he simply gestured for her to follow.
Lhaurel hesitated, though the mention of a sandstorm sent ripples of fear down the base of her neck. Someone appeared at the end of the hall, belabored breathing seeming to echo in the narrow confines. It was Tieran.
“Lhaurel. Kaiden,” he gasped. “Get out of the halls. Get somewhere with a door.”
The intensity cut through Lhaurel’s distrust. The panic in his voice was real.
She dashed toward Kaiden as Tieran continued down the intersecting hall. The sword Beryl had given her weighed heavily in her left hand. When Kaiden reached out and grasped her by the wrist, Lhaurel didn’t fight the grip, though her skin crawled at the feel of his rough hands. Images of leather, blood, and a flashing knife darted across her memory. Dread spread through her. Her vision swam and Kaiden swore, giving her arm an unusually hard tug that sent her stumbling.
Anger welled up within her. Before she realized what she was doing, she lashed out with the sheathed sword, catching Kaiden in the gut. He doubled over, clutching at his stomach, but Lhaurel followed up with a swift kick to the side of his legs, bringing him to the ground. Leaping to her feet, Lhaurel half drew her sword before she came to her senses in a wash of cold realization.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I—I didn’t mean to. I—”
Kaiden waived her to silence. His eyes burned with a mixture of anger and pain. A dark stain spread across the lower half of his robes. Lhaurel couldn’t tell if it was water or urine, but she wasn’t about to ask.
The wind picked up, screeching down the passage like the sound of a sailfin pack. Lhaurel’s robes fluttered in the wind, dancing up around her knees and revealing an indecent amount of leg. The smell of dust hung heavy in the air, filling her nose.
Kaiden cursed and struggled to his feet, the anger fading into a wary expression. He gestured for Lhaurel to follow him again, though it was a perfunctory motion, no heart in it. She followed him, not meeting his eye.
Kaiden threw open a nearby door and stepped inside. Lhaurel entered after him, and Kaiden shut the door.
Not even a single crack of sunlight drifted down through the sandstone. Torchlight cast a strange orange and grey pallor over the barrels and sacks that lined the walls of the small room. Kaiden grunted as he pushed around her, their shoulders bumping with no small amount of force, and sat down on some of the sacks. A pair of rashelta scurried out from under the sacks and disappeared into the shadows, light glinting off the small spines that stuck up from their shells.
“What was that for?” Lhaurel said, rounding on him.
Kaiden dug around in the pocket of his robes and fished out a soggy piece of leather. It took Lhaurel a moment to recognize it as a small waterskin, one side split along the seam.
“That’s two of these you’ve ruined now.” He tossed the soggy leather at her.
“I’ve ruined?”
“Yes, you,” he said, a biting edge creeping into his voice. “You’re a wetta. Khari asked me to break you. I guess I succeeded. Fat lot of good that did me.”
Lhaurel blinked. “I’m a what?”
Kaiden threw up his hands in exasperation, the flickering torchlight seeming to outline him in a thin reddish aura. Or at least Lhaurel thought it was exasperation. When she took a moment to comprehend what she was seeing, she realized Kaiden had tossed several small squares of metal into the air. She waited for them to fall to the ground, but they hung suspended in the air a few inches above Kaiden’s head.
A wash of emotions crossed over Lhaurel’s face. Fear, confusion, incredulity—all giving way to stunned disbelief as Kaiden flicked a finger and the metal squares threw themselves through the air with a whistle, piercing the shell of a scrabbling rashelta that had just wandered back into the torchlight. The shell gave way with a sickening crunch. The metal weaponry burst through the rashelta’s belly and clinked against the rocks. Purple blood dripped into the sand.
Lhaurel backed slowly toward the door, her eyes wide.
Kaiden turned to her with a grin.
Her back hit wood. Her left hand scrabbled at the door’s latch.
“You’re a mystic,” Kaiden said, his tone quiet yet fervent. “A magic user. One of three kinds. I am a magnetelorium. You are a wetta.”
The stories were true. The tales tired mothers told their wayward children at night to keep them in bed, stories about the magic of the Roterralar and how they could kill you without ever raising a hand. They were all true. She’d never been one to believe the stories, especially not as she’d gotten older, but she had proof before her now. She’d thought Tieran had been joking when he’d called Khari a mystic but—
“What are you?”
Her hands twisted on the latch behind her back, but it wouldn’t budge. She could hear the wind whistling behind her, could feel the sand beat against the outside of the frame. She knew the dangers of being exposed to such a blast. She’d seen flesh torn off a man caught outside the safety of the warren. Right now, though, looking at the twitching rashelta, she almost wished for the sands.
Blood dripped onto the ground.
Kaiden blinked and seemed to notice her fear for the first time. He sighed and rolled his eyes but got to his feet, holding his hands wide.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s start this over again. You can draw your sword if you wish, whatever will make you feel better.”
Lhaurel felt a small flush of embarrassment. She’d dropped her sword as soon as the metal squares had shot across the room. It lay discarded at her feet. She picked it up hastily and drew it, metal gleaming in the torchlight.
“What did you just do, demon?” she asked, her voice harsh.
“Why is it always demons? The next time I visit the clans I’m going to have a word with all those mothers about the stories they tell their children. I’m tired of being called a demon by those I try to protect.”
“What did you just do?” she repeated, bringing the point of her sword up to hover an inch from his face.
Kaiden focused on the blade. His expression was hard, tempered with the barest trace of contempt. “Metal. I manipulated the forces that pull metals together or push them apart. Anything made of metal I can control. For example—” He shifted and the sword wrenched from her fingers of its own volition, twisting in the air to turn back around and point toward her. It hovered in the air an inch from her left eye. “Useful, wouldn’t you say?”
Lhaurel unclenched her fists with an effort. Who was he? Just when she’d started to understand one thing, something new had completely upended her world. “You are a wetta.” The sword dropped into the sand, point first. “Which means that you don’t manipulate metal. You manipulate water. You can find it, sense it. In the same way, you can sense and detect other mystics. Both useful in the desert climate.”
“No, I can’t.” The denial came readily, the words leaping from her lips almost before c
onscious thought formed them.
“Pretending you can’t feel the sandstorm’s effects on your skin doesn’t mean it’s not raging just behind the door,” Kaiden said, the lines on his face sharpening. “I tell you that you are a wetta. Whether or not you accept that is irrelevant. It doesn’t change the truth. We’ve watched you for years. The mystics who’ve come through your warren have been there to keep an eye on you. Since one of our wetta sensed you, we’ve just been waiting for the right moment to bring you into the fold. Tradition dictates it be close to your seventeenth year for women, though it can be earlier if something triggers a breaking before then.”
The sword flipped up out of the ground and spun around so that the hilt was facing her at around arm height. The metal squares flickered in the torchlight, dripping purple flecks of blood as they returned to Kaiden’s hands. He wiped them on the sides of his pants and deposited them in a pocket. He did it so casually. As if something so wondrously terrifying were commonplace and mundane. The sword bobbed in the air, gently prodding her arm. Lhaurel did her best to ignore it.
Fear tugged at her, giving her clarity of thought. She remembered Kaiden throwing her the sword when the sailfins had attacked the Sidena. He’d set her up—she was sure of it—set her up to be genesauri bait and, ultimately, bring her here.
Her hands reached behind her and struggled with the latch. It rattled loudly, and Kaiden arched an eyebrow at her, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t think she could even if she’d wanted to. Shrieks of anger assaulted the door behind her—the anger of wind denied passage at the end of a long journey.
“You’re still in denial, aren’t you?” Kaiden sighed and grabbed a fistful of his hair in frustration, “Lhaurel, we want you to join us. In fact, you’ve already sworn fealty to the Roterralar, so it’s just a matter of acting the part.”
“And what if I don’t want to anymore?”
The lock clicked in the door behind her, the latch suddenly lifting in her hands.
Sharani series Box Set Page 9