The Swordsman's Oath

by Juliet E. McKenna

  “Never mind.” Temar caught Guinalle to him, feeling her trembling uncontrollably with fatigue. “Are you sure you can do this? Do you want a rest before you go on?” Part of him desperately wanted to delay being locked into sleep only to be buried beneath the earth.

  Guinalle was breathing with some difficulty, a pulse in her throat fluttering. “I think we had better go as fast as we can.” she stammered. “There’s something interfering with the Artifice, everything’s going awry. I don’t know how much longer I can hold the enchantment together before I have to submit myself to it, otherwise it will all unravel.”

  “She knows what she’s doing, Temar. Come on, you’re the last to take your rest.”

  Temar looked around to see Vahil standing behind them, his face grim and drawn, dressed in old leather for the grueling trip through the caves. The small band going with him were busy packing the miscellany of possessions, safeguarding the unknowing, unconscious minds of the colonists, into a series of leather packs.

  “What will you focus on?” asked Guinalle, her voice stronger now.

  Temar unbuckled his sword. “This.” He looked at the blade, at the engraving, rammed it home into the scabbard and gripped the hilt to quell the trembling in his hands.

  “Lie down then.” Guinalle knelt beside the pile of cloaks prepared for him and Temar forced himself to comply, gritting his teeth but unable to prevent himself starting at the touch of Guinalle’s icy hands on his forehead.

  “I’ll see you soon, Temar,” Vahil’s voice seemed to come from somewhere far distant as insidious tendrils of sleep began to coil themselves around Temar’s waking mind.

  “Don’t fight it, my dearest,” he heard Guinalle murmur, her words distorted as all sensation of the rocks beneath him was lost in a giddying feeling of falling, spinning, his breath coming rapidly, panic burning in his throat, numbness seizing his legs, his chest, his arms, his head, choking him, stifling him.

  The hidden island city of Hadrumal,

  30th of For-Summer

  I was dying. I was suffocating; pressure tight as an iron hand was crushing my chest. As I struggled in a futile effort to draw a last breath, eyes blind, my hearing somehow still clinging to life, I struggled to make sense of the words echoing over my head.

  “Push some air into him, Otrick, curse you. ’Sar, warm his blood before we lose him completely.”

  The constriction slackened a little and the spiraling dizziness abated somewhat, just enough for me to feel a damp, shaking hand on my forehead. I tried to toss it off, but found I could not move my head. Worse, I could not move my arms or legs; any effort dissolved in confusion. I tried to speak, to swear at these people, whoever they might be, but I could not even raise a groan. At least I could hear; that had to mean I wasn’t dead yet, didn’t it?

  “Planir, I think we have it now, let me—”

  A jumble of nonsense words in another voice that I vaguely registered as unfamiliar rang inside my head, scattering the unremembered nightmares that were trying to shred my sanity. Just as I realized this, I managed to move my hand, although with no more control than a day-old babe. Exhaustion overwhelmed me and I let myself drift into the welcoming embrace of helpless stupor.

  “No! Don’t let him go, don’t let him go!”

  Some bastard stuck something sharp into my hand and I managed a feeble moan of protest, only wanting all this confusion to go away, to sleep and to sleep again, more deeply.

  “Breathe, curse you, Ryshad, breathe!” Now the swine was slapping my face, and I forced my eyes open to look up at a blurred face, all angles and confusing movement. It gradually coalesced into a man of middle years, close cropped brown hair surrounding a plump face with dark eyes too close set above a sharp nose. A gleam of silver on his hand caught my feeble curiosity for a moment, but identifying it was simply too much effort, so I just closed my eyes again.

  “Ryshad!” That voice was familiar, that one I recognized and that notion distracted me from the seductive lure of slumber. Who was she, I wondered drowsily? She sounded upset. That roused me a little. Whoever she was, she was upset with me. What had I done wrong?

  “Wake up, Ryshad, come back to us.” The first voice was getting distinctly annoyed, so I opened my eyes again and a face slowly swam into focus, hair the color of autumn, eyes of summer leaves. This was the face of the familiar voice, I decided somehow. I coughed and found my breathing easier, my wits slowly piecing themselves back together.

  “Livak?” That was her name, I remembered now; I tried to speak but my mind seemed somehow disconnected from my voice. Trying again, I managed a faint croak but was rewarded by a squeeze to my numb hand, a welcome sensation even if it felt as if I were wearing three thicknesses of winter gloves.

  “Ryshad, are you with us?” That was the first voice and, after a little effort, I placed it. Planir; it was that bastard Archmage, the one who had landed me in this in the first place. The surge of hot anger that followed on the heels of that thought must have set my wits alight and, in an instant, I knew who and where I was.

  I coughed again and smelled the distinctive reek of thassin. “I said no narcotics, mage.” I rolled my head to glare at him accusingly, still unable to lift it to my intense frustration.

  “We found we needed them.” Planir was unapologetic, which came as no real surprise. “Tonin found your defenses against his ritual were simply too strong to break down without it.”

  “I’m sorry, I know what I said, but you have to remember this is all untested ground.” This voice did sound genuinely contrite and, with its Soluran lilt, I remembered hearing it moments before. Tonin, that was his name, the scholar and mentor from the University of Vanam who was in Hadrumal, along with his students, to study the few enchantments of aetheric magic so far discovered.

  “Did you get what you needed, mage?” I demanded hoarsely, not daring to try to remember for myself in case I fell into that smothering turmoil of sorcery again.

  “Oh yes, Ryshad, most certainly.” My wits were still woolly, I realized; the exultation in the Archmage’s voice didn’t fill me with nearly the dread that my reason told me it should.

  “Thank you, thank you very much indeed,” continued the wizard, pulling a plain black robe over his shirt sleeves as he spoke. “You have been more help than you can possibly imagine. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a great deal to do and you will need time to recover. Otrick, Usara—with me, if you please.”

  The three mages swept out of the room without further courtesy and I found myself alone with Tonin and Livak. I managed to get myself onto my side, propped on one elbow, trembling with an exhaustion that for the life of me I couldn’t understand. Livak was sitting on a stool by the bed where I lay, rubbing her hands, which I could see had been crushed white and numb in a fierce grip. An angry red line betrayed the bite of a broad ring band into her finger.

  “Did I do that?” I asked, aghast.

  “You or that D’Alsennin, I’m not sure,” she replied, a faint smile doing nothing to lighten the shock in her eyes, green as deep water and about as revealing.

  “Was it very bad?” I managed to keep my voice level, which was some achievement, given the circumstances.

  Livak shuddered involuntarily. “It was so strange,” she said slowly after a long moment’s silence. “It simply wasn’t you. There was nothing of you, of Ryshad, in what you said, how you acted, how you moved even. It was all that lad, the D’Alsennin boy, wearing your skin and looking out of your eyes.” She clasped her hands to her face in remembered shock. “Your eyes, Rysh, they went completely blue, pale as ice and less alive. Arimelin save me, but it was foul!”

  I reached for her hand and after a hesitation, a breath only but unmistakably reluctant, she gave it to me. I clung to her like a drowning man as we shared a look and remembered Aiten’s death together.

  “I’m so very sorry we had to put you through that,” Tonin began hesitantly, plucking absently at the slashed sleeves of his purple jerkin, th
e latest Ensaimin style from the north, which he wore with none of the required bravado. “I’ll admit I was hoping for a rather more revealing contact than we have had with other subjects, given the extraordinary sympathy you’ve established with the D’Alsennin sword, but that turned out to be dramatic beyond anything I expected. I certainly had no idea it would be quite so dangerous. I cannot explain it, though I’ll address myself to the question at once, obviously.”

  The shock in his voice made me realize I had been through something even more traumatic than I had realized, still dazed as I was. I looked at Livak again. “At least it’s all over now. No more dreams, no more voices in my head.”

  She looked over at Tonin and I followed her gaze to see him looking first startled then guilty. “It is over, isn’t it?” she demanded in a dangerous tone.

  “Well…” Tonin clasped his notes nervously to his barrel of a chest and I remembered thinking before that he was somewhat overtimid, both for a man of his size and of such standing in his learned community. His hands were soft too, never toughened by anything more demanding than paper or pen.

  “Has Planir lied to me?” I managed to sit up and looked around instinctively for my sword. Still reasoning too slowly, I was thinking I might be using it on the Archmage, before remembering the cursed blade was what had run me into his snares in the first place.

  “No one has told you untruths, not deliberately anyway.” Tonin moved closer, his voice more confident. “It’s just that we didn’t realize what we were dealing with. We have all been misled by only having such partial information. We all thought these dreams were echoes of the past, carried by the artifacts. Now we know better, it’s clear the actual consciousness of the original owner is held in the item and communicating with the unconscious mind of whoever possesses it in the present. That can never have been foreseen, or intended, for that matter.”

  “Temar’s been doing a cursed sight more than communicate with my unconscious mind,” I just managed not to snarl. “Are you telling me I still have him lurking in the back of my head?”

  “For the moment, I’m afraid so,” sighed Tonin with unfeigned regret. “I’ll set to work at once, go through all the references and that Arimelin archive, see what I can do for you.”

  I was tempted to let my mounting fury find its target in him for an instant, but simple justice held me back. It wasn’t Tonin’s fault and, if he could be believed, it wasn’t even Planir’s, not really. Besides, I was starting to think that the uncharacteristic rages I had been feeling were not my own, but Temar’s. A wave of black depression swept over me as I managed to swing my feet to the floor, my legs feeling as weak as if I’d been lying abed with a four-day fever. “So I risked my life and my sanity for no purpose?”

  “Not at all!” Tonin looked most concerned. “Now we know what happened to the colonists in Kel Ar’Ayen—”

  As he spoke the image of the great cavern full of silent figures came sweeping over me. I gasped and clutched at the bed, hearing the linen rip beneath my fingers as my heart raced, blood pulsing in my head until I managed to slam a door shut on the vision.

  “Ryshad?” I hated to hear the uncertainty in Livak’s tone.

  “Yes.” I managed to open my eyes and squint at her, attempting a reassuring smile and evidently failing miserably.

  “Saedrin save us, I hate this!” she burst out, the fury in her voice a dim echo on my own wrath. I clung to that bright anger in a vain attempt to ward off the dark surges of despair that threatened me on all sides.

  The door opened. “Is he all right?”

  “Come in, Shiv,” I said wearily. “I’m upright and conscious, which is about as good as it’s going to get for the moment.”

  Whatever Shiv saw in my face evidently shook him, which perversely cheered me up a little. He looked guiltily at Livak, who glared at him, expression fierce.

  “I came to see if you wanted to come home with me, if you feel ready,” Shiv glanced at Tonin, “but if you need to stay here—”

  “I’ll come.” I got unsteadily to my feet and Livak tucked herself under my arm to give me what support she could.

  “It might be better if you waited a while…” protested Tonin weakly as we made our way toward the door.

  “No, thank you.” I drew a deep breath and gripped the door handle as much for support as to open it. “Just find a way to throw Temar D’Alsennin out of my head once and for all.”

  Outside I was startled to realize the noonday sun was riding high in the cloud-strewn sky. Hadn’t we started this nonsense just after breakfast? I’d sent Shiv with a message, telling Planir to be ready at the second chime of the day and duly I arrived to sit and concentrate obediently on Tonin’s incomprehensible, archaic chants. I had certainly been expecting an unpleasant experience, but never to lose myself so completely as I evidently had. If young D’Alsennin had had the run of my head for that amount of time, no wonder I was feeling so peculiar.

  “Come on.” Shiv took my other arm. Leaning heavily on the pair of them, I stumbled along toward the dubious sanctuary of Shiv’s little house. Given the dramatic events still echoing around in my memory, it was rather incongruous to see women with their market baskets, men delivering faggots of firewood, children skipping through a rope tied to a horse-rail, normal life going on all around me. We certainly attracted some curious glances; people must have thought I was a drunk making an early start, but that was the least of my concerns as I struggled with Temar’s increasingly intrusive recollections. I kept seeing Avila trying to hold up Guinalle when she fainted on the boat, Den Fellaemion leaning on Guinalle at a meeting in the settlement, Vahil supporting a wounded man in the frantic flight from the Elietimm invasion. The summer sun was warm on my back but the chill of that distant and long forgotten cavern seemed to have bitten deep into my bones, gnawing at me despite the heat of Hadrumal. By the time Pered opened the door to us, I was shaking again, and not just from fatigue.

  Pered took one look at me and shot an accusing glance at Shiv. “I hope Planir’s good and satisfied now,” he said curtly. “Bring him into the kitchen.”

  Half lying, half sitting on a settle padded with blankets, I began to feel a little better, a process speedily aided by a large measure of white brandy. As the warmth of the liquor spread through me I wondered for a moment whether this was entirely wise, but I honestly couldn’t see how it could make anything worse by this stage. Forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths, I reminded myself how tedious convalescence from any fever or wound can be. It was all a matter of finding the right attitude, wasn’t it? This was simply a different kind of injury, and I would deal with it. Losing my temper was pointless when there was no gain to be had from it; hadn’t I learned that long ago? Enough; I had sworn to myself that I would be taking the tiller to control the direction of my life from now on, and this was as good a place to start as any. Brave words, as long as there was only me to hear them. I shut my eyes and set my jaw against any hint of memory.

  Shiv vanished upstairs for a while, reappearing in a formal robe of green broadcloth over close-tailored breeches and clean linen. Pered straightened the collar for him with brisk hands, but his eyes were still unforgiving, even as they shared a brief embrace.

  “So what happens now, Shiv?” demanded Livak, her eyes like a stormy sea.

  “Planir is calling a full session of the Council for this afternoon,” replied Shiv, which effectively silenced us all. “He wants you there, Ryshad.”

  “He’s in no condition to speak,” Pered objected heatedly.

  “Not to speak, just to listen, to comment if he wants to,” said Shiv placatingly. “To learn what Planir intends. It’s just that you’re so deeply involved in all of this, Rysh, that Planir feels it’s only right you should have the chance to participate in any decision-making.”

  “What do you think?” I looked at Livak.

  “I hate it,” she said simply. “I don’t trust wizards, I’m sorry, Shiv, but I never have.”

&n
bsp; “I have to see this through,” I reminded her, “if I’m to be able to hand back my oath with any measure of honor left to me.”

  Livak gritted her teeth audibly. “I know, but it still makes my skin crawl.”

  “Believe me, I understand.” I closed my eyes wearily.

  “Does anyone want something to eat?” asked Pered, more for something to say than anything else.

  We ate a desultory meal, largely in silence, Shiv awkward in his finery. I picked at some bread, but found I was still somewhat nauseous, shoving it away with relief when a great bell tolled out over the city and Shiv jumped to his feet.

  “That’s the Council summons,” he said tensely. “Come on.”

  Livak and I exchanged a glance and followed Shiv to the door.

  “I’ll see you soon.” Pered waved after us, his expression one of concern warring with irritation as he looked after his partner, already a way down the street ahead of us.

  I was immeasurably relieved to find the strength returning to my legs; I wasn’t about to appear before this Council leaning on Livak, however badly Planir might want me there. We walked slowly down to the hall, finding Shiv hovering anxiously in the archway.

  “It’s this way,” he said unnecessarily, leading the way to a forbidding door banded with enough iron to stop a fully manned battering ram. This gave on to a short flight of stairs, topped by another grim portal, deep sigils carved into the wood, iron bolts tying in the metal reinforcements. I did not allow myself to be too overawed; I’ve stood before the Emperor’s throne in the Imperial audience chamber of Toremal more than once. My step faltered at that notion as I remembered the destruction I had seen the Elietimm visit upon the place, if only in augury.

  The Council chamber itself was impressive, that I have to admit. It took me a moment to realize there were no windows, the illumination inside was so intense. It was not sunlight, but came from a ball of pure radiance hanging in the center of the vaulted ceiling, a visible display of the magic that had its focus here. The room was circular, dark oaken chairs of varying ages and styles arranged all around the walls, each with a niche molded into the soft yellow stonework. In the middle an empty circular dais was positioned directly under the ball of light and I wondered who would be standing there, every eye on him. Not me, that was for certain.