The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  He smiled sadly.

  “Truth to tell, it was that thought led me to buy the Iron Axe, to be showing Gwynna as much of the world as I might as young as I could. Leeana, she’s courage enough to face Phrobus himself and spit in his eye. It’s not once she ever faltered, ever questioned. But me?” He shook his head. “It’s too well I know how other folk look at my own. No doubt there’s never a father born as didn’t worry about his little girl and how she’s like to fare when he’s no longer there to watch and ward. But Gwynna…it’s a long, long time she’ll bear the burden of ‘halfbreed’ in the eyes of some, and there’s too many as’ll be adding ‘bastard’ to the tally, as well.”

  Kenhodan couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but he didn’t have to. He heard the anguished love of a father in his friend’s voice, and he wished suddenly that all those who continued to despise the hradani could hear it with him. But they couldn’t, and so he reached out and gripped Bahzell’s shoulder fiercely.

  “Bahzell, you said Leeana told you she wanted you, that she would’ve loved you—married you—even knowing it was impossible for you to have children, not just unlikely. Did you feel the same way about her?”

  “Of course,” Bahzell said simply. “There’s not a person in this universe more precious to me than Leeana, unless it might be being Gwynna herself. But children are after being our immortality for most folk, Kenhodan.”

  “The man who wins Gwynna’s hand will be a fortunate man indeed,” Kenhodan said firmly. “If he has a grain of sense, he’ll know it, too. And your daughter will never be taken in by clever words, never deceived by promises that aren’t meant, just as she’ll recognize the shallowness and stupidity of anyone who hates her for what she is rather than treasuring her for who she is! Trust me when I tell you this. Gwynna will find someone—the right someone—to love her and be worthy of all the love I’ve already seen in her.”

  Bahzell smiled in the darkness and gripped Kenhodan’s forearm. In all the years since Gwynna’s birth, he’d confided his fears only to Leeana. He hadn’t even discussed them with Wencit—for Wencit had always known, and Bahzell had never doubted the wizard’s deep, complex love for Gwynna. He’d never feared Wencit would fail her.

  He didn’t know why he’d confided in Kenhodan, yet he was glad he had. Whatever Kenhodan’s past, Bahzell knew he could trust him with his most precious secret. And his simple assurance reminded Bahzell of Leeana’s so long ago on the day he’d haltingly confessed he’d decided to buy the Iron Axe, and why. She’d hugged him, her eyes wet, and kissed him and told him to let the future see to itself while they concentrated on the only time they could control: the present.

  And he’d tried. The gods knew he’d tried! He loved his daughter with all his strength, for if he and Brandark could cross the chasm of hate between human and hradani—if his father, and Leeana’s, could bridge that chasm for Horse Stealer hradani and Sothōii, whose hatred had burned fiercest in all the world—why should it be impossible for his Gwynna, the treasure of his heart, to find the man—human or hradani—meant for her?

  It wasn’t impossible. Surely it wasn’t! That was what he’d told himself then, but now he knew better. She had no need to cross the chasm; she’d been born on its farther side. Some might hate her for what she was, but not those who knew her—never those who knew her! For Kenhodan was right, she was a beautiful child, beautiful in every sense of the word, with a heart as open and warm as the sun. Leeana’s advice to him had borne that fruit, for he had loved his daughter—loved her with all the indomitable strength of his own heart—and that love had built a haven in which she could become what she was meant to be.

  The depth of his love for Leeana swept over him like the sea. She’d been so much wiser than he, had seen so far past his inner fears from the very beginning. She’d loved him despite his hradaniness, and she’d refused to let him hide from his love for her. She dealt not in stereotypes but in the fierce wisdom of a heart which told her that for every evil that was a good, for every cruelty a kindness. She’d known that Gwynna would create her own life, dealing with pain and sorrow as they arose, and because she was what she was, triumphing. And for Bahzell Bahnakson, Champion of Tomanāk, the weight of the world rested on that one point.

  His daughter would triumph.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Farewell to South Keep

  The vase was priceless, an heirloom saved out of the wreck of Kontovar. It was a beautiful piece—paper thin, delicate porcelain, decorated with a pattern of galloping horses and the distinctive plum-green glaze of Chanerith, a glaze whose composition was now known only in Saramantha. Had it been offered for sale, collectors in the Empire of the Axe or of the Spear would have bid furiously against one another. The final price would have not only fed and housed and clothed a prosperous family of five for at least ten years…and have been far less than it was actually worth.

  Wulfra of Torfo held it in her hand, feeling its delicacy, its airy weightlessness. And then, with awful deliberation, she shattered it into fragments, ground the pieces under her heel, and stormed about her bedchamber, cursing viciously.

  The last session with her sponsor had not been pleasant. His cold, biting anger had turned his words into flensing knives, and little though she cared to admit it, the distance between Kontovar and Norfressa had seemed far too short in the face of his freezing fury.

  Yet what had he expected? Direct control of the dragon would have required moment-to-moment concentration, and if her control had wavered for a second, it would have turned upon and destroyed her. So she’d simply commanded the creature to kill anything that moved in South Wall Pass. How was she supposed to know late snows would delay Wencit? And was it her fault he’d slammed up a blocking spell not even the cat-eyed wizard could break?

  How dared he rant at her?! It wasn’t he who now faced destruction on every hand! Wencit had undoubtedly discussed who’d been responsible for the dragon with that never to be sufficiently damned Earl Bostik, and the Empire of the Axe had made one point of policy brutally clear throughout its history: any arcane attack on the Empire brought retaliation…no matter what the cost or risk. And now she was implicated as the arcane killer of hundreds of Royal and Imperial soldiers!

  She smashed another vase, twin to the first.

  Damn Wencit! And damn Bostik, too! If the wizard didn’t deal with her, Bostik would. She’d studied the man too carefully to have any doubt about that. He held his post precisely because he was entirely prepared to act on his own initiative, and he commanded sufficient strength to go through the kingdom of Angthyr like a hot poker through butter. Even if Fallona dared to defend Wulfra (which was now unlikely, to say the least), the army Wulfra had helped factionalize could never resist Bostik if he chose to march straight to Torfo. And that, of course, completely ignored the Council of Semkirk.

  She flung herself into a chair. Well, she’d made plans against this day. If she survived—or evaded—Wencit’s wrath, she could escape King Emperor, Earl, and Queen alike. There was one bolthole none of them could close against her, one ally who cared naught for their wrath because it was always at war with them anyway.

  She smiled thinly, wondering how Harlich would feel when she dropped in on him among the Shith Kiri?

  * * *

  The cat-eyed wizard wasn’t watching Wulfra, and so he failed to overhear her thoughts. Not that he would have cared about them, given how little chance of survival she had. In fact, her stupidity—and his, he was forced to admit—had lessened her chances appreciably.

  He’d blundered massively, rushing into an act which would cost him dear. It had seemed so perfect that he hadn’t paused to recognize the true depth of his gamble, or that he could win only if the dragon succeeded. But the dragon had failed, and its failure had cost him a priceless advantage. After all his care to prevent Wencit from guessing he was watched by someone other than Wulfra, he’d forced the wild wizard to another, totally erroneous conclusion which ─ in the short term,
at least ─ was every bit as bad.

  He leaned back in his chair, outwardly calm, while a hurricane of wrath spun within him. Damn the old wizard! And damn himself, too! Wencit had known Wulfra could locate him through Chernion, but he hadn’t cared…not until the cat-eyed wizard “proved” Wulfra had become powerful enough to control dragons! And since Wencit, for reasons of his own, hadn’t chosen to dispose of Chernion yet, he’d taken a perfectly logical step and erected a blocking spell to sever Wulfra’s link. Which, of course, just happened to block the Carnadosans, as well.

  He drew a deep breath and sought a state of meditative calm. Very well. Accept that he’d committed his first truly serious blunder. What had he lost and how bad was the actual damage?

  He could no longer observe Wencit’s daily routine or track him, which meant the wild wizard was now immune to attack from a distance. But was that truly so terrible? The whole purpose of the dragon, of the entire gambit with the sword, was to test Wencit. It hadn’t worked out that way so far, yet sooner or later Wencit must face Wulfra’s guard spells, and when that happened the cat-eyed wizard would be able to see him through Wulfra’s crystal, despite his blocking spells. So however frustrating ─ and infuriating ─ it might be in the short term, the loss was hardly catastrophic in the long run. Or not yet, at least.

  The game was still his, he decided, but he must be careful. Perhaps he ought to regard this setback as a learning experience, one which would make him both more cautious and more effective in the future. He thought about that for several seconds, then sighed heavily as he felt his confidence slowly return.

  It would be all right. He’d lost one card, but he still held all the trumps.

  * * *

  Mistress Josilan looked up as her office door opened silently. Magi didn’t knock on Academy doors; there was no need when thoughts could be sent ahead, and students were encouraged to do just that as they mastered their talents. Yet the physical training master was struck afresh by the utter silence with which Gwynna moved. The child’s grace was almost inhuman, she thought, then scolded herself. In one sense, Gwynna was exactly that, but that wasn’t the sense in which magi applied the word.

  “Good afternoon, Gwynna. What can I do for you today?”

  “I need your advice, Mistress Josilan,” Gwynna said. The timbre of her voice pricked at Josilan, yet it was the same as ever…wasn’t it?

  “About what, Little Sister?”

  “About…a new talent of mine,” Gwynna said diffidently, and Josilan listened to her voice carefully. The girl had made a remarkable recovery from her near-fatal training crisis. To the eye, or even to the casual mental touch, she was just the same as before, yet there was a difference. She was as sunny-natured as ever, and (Josilan smiled inwardly at the thought) almost as flippant with her instructors. But despite all of that, there was a change, one that went as deep as the very tone of her voice.

  Then Josilan frowned. No, it wasn’t her tone; it was the voice itself. Still as clear and silver as a bell, yet somehow subtly deeper.…

  She straightened suddenly, bending talent and eye alike upon Gwynna, and her lips tightened.

  “You needn’t tell me which talent,” she said dryly, and the girl blushed. “Gwynna, Gwynna!” Josilan sighed and waved to the chair. “Why do you do these things? Hasn’t everything I’ve said meant anything to you?”

  “Of course it has, Mistress Josilan.”

  Gwynna sat in the indicated chair with her feet together, hands folded primly in her lap, mobile ears cocked attentively, her posture of focused respect only slightly marred by the twinkle in her blue eyes. Josilan shook her head reproachfully, yet inwardly she rejoiced to see that glint of deviltry. It would have been a tragedy if her crisis had extinguished Gwynna’s core of delight.

  She looked absurdly young with her hair pulled back and braided, but Josilan couldn’t be fooled. Not now.

  “Has it really? Because if it has, if you’ve really been listening to me, just what do you think you’re doing, Little Sister?”

  “What I have to,” Gwynna said. The twinkle faded and she became unwontedly serious. “I have to get ready as quickly as I can.”

  “But this!” Josilan threw up her hands. “No one’s asking you to spend time on the usual journeyman duties. We know you don’t have time to work in the message relays or to heal a farmer’s stock. Those are tasks in which we can all take pride, just as we do in making glass or healing the sick, and it’s a terrible pity you can’t perform them. But even when that’s said and done, you must take time to grow into your powers. Don’t rush yourself so!”

  “Mistress Josilan,” Gwynna said carefully, “what you say is true, but so is the coda. When a talent can be used, the time has come to use it.”

  “The coda was never written for a student as precocious as you, and well you know it! And don’t bother to smile down your sleeve it me, my girl!” Gwynna hastily assumed a dutifully straight face and Josilan snorted. “That’s better. You may be able to bring Trayn around your thumb, but you’ll find me a little more difficult than him.”

  “Yes, Mistress Josilan,” Gwynna said meekly. Very meekly.

  “Gwynna—!”

  Josilan glared and then shook her head helplessly. She couldn’t restrain an answering smile, but concern banished it as quickly as it had come.

  “Listen to me, Gwynna. It’s well enough to jest about most things, but not about this. What you’re doing is dangerous, child! Age control is a rare and precious gift, but you must not use it this way. Control your age, yes, but you can’t force yourself to grow like a hothouse flower!”

  “The process is controlled,” Gwynna said, and Josilan looked at her in momentary surprise. The twinkle had vanished entirely now, and her face was suddenly mature, her voice clinical and impersonal, as if in that moment she’d become fully adult. “The factor’s only about two-to-one, and I plan to keep it there until I master the talent completely. But I need your help for that.”

  “I won’t give it to you!” Josilan snapped, love and fear making her suddenly furious. “Damn it, Gwynna—this is dangerous! Especially for a woman!”

  “A woman, Mistress Josilan?” There was a brittle edge to the strangely adult voice, and Josilan’s anger vanished as her heart twisted within her. Gwynna watched her and went on calmly. “I know what I am. I think I’ve always known, but I learned for certain the day you taught me to scan my own cells. Did you think I’d only scan and not compare? I know I have less need than most to worry about what driving my age this way will do to my hormones and fertility, Mistress Josilan.”

  “Gwynna—” Josilan’s voice was wrung with pain.

  “Don’t pity me.” Gwynna held up an oddly compelling hand, as if she’d suddenly become the teacher. “Not for that, at least. I know I’ll have other joys. I know it, Mistress Josilan—” somehow, in that moment, Josilan couldn’t doubt her calm certitude “—but for that to happen, I have to live. And for that, I have to do what I’m doing.”

  “I see.” Josilan bent her head, studying her own clasped hands as they lay atop her desk. “Then what do you want of me, Gwynna? If I can give it to you, I will.” She raised eyes that were suddenly bright with unshed tears. “I’ll do anything you ask…except hurt you.”

  “I need you to help me so I won’t hurt myself. I need your help to master this talent and plan my diet and exercises around it.”

  “I see,” Josilan said again, her voice relieved. “At least you know what you’ll be asking of your body. But it requires more than that, Gwynna. It requires close monitoring, and not by you. You’ll probably lose some fine control of all your talents as your hormones shift.”

  “I know, Mistress Josilan. That’s why Master Trayn sent me to you.”

  “I’m pleased he had that much sense,” Josilan said tartly. “All right, Love—just how fast are you planning to go?”

  “I need a twelve-to-one factor,” Gwynna said quietly.

  “Twelve-to-one?! That’s an
awful strain on your system—especially for the age period we’re talking about. You’re half-hradani, so I suspect your metabolism would be able to handle it better than anyone else’s would, but the effects would still be drastic. How long do you plan on maintaining that rate?”

  “Six months,” Gwynna said in that same soft voice.

  “Semkirk! You haven’t even started your cycles yet—are you sure you want to move through puberty so fast? Can’t you at least start more slowly, child?”

  “Not unless I increase the rate later,” Gwynna said steadily. “I don’t have time, Mistress Josilan.”

  “All right,” Josilan said finally. “I’ll help you—but only if you promise to do exactly as I bid you!”

  “I always do,” Gwynna murmured, and the twinkle was back in her eyes.

  * * *

  Kenhodan felt very insignificant as he entered the immensity of South Keep’s Great Hall.

  The stone floor was a shining pattern of white, black, and red squares, stretching away in all directions in the early light pouring through the wide windows. The walls were granite, delicately veined with pink and burnished to a mirror polish. Rich hangings emphasized the purity and strength of the stone rather than hiding the walls, and a carpet runner—its deep, soft pile as crimson as blood—ran from the double doors of ebony to a raised dais at the far end of the hall. The axe of the Empire flashed on the wall above the dais—a massive shape of gold and silver etched with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and opals. Twenty feet tall it was, from haft to blade, and the precious stones threw spangled pools of green, white, golden, and bloody light across the floor. Below the axe was a massive throne, glowing with beaten metals and rich wood, its cushioned seat stiff with embroidery and gems. The axe motif and the imperial diadem repeated endlessly over the wine-colored silk of its canopy.