Analindë (The Chronicles of Lóresse)

by Melissa Bitter

  Her mind drifted and she had no cares; anything was possible. The world was open to her with choices, lots of choices. She would chart her own path. Hope and possibilities were endless.

  Contented swirls of Energy radiated from the plants and giant trees around her, washing over her. Stability and everlasting strength ebbed from the depths. The forest’s power overshadowed all else, as was its purpose. Purpose?

  She breathed out the brief spike in tension that the thought had generated and her mind settled back down. She realized then that the garden and giant trees had intent—like Mirëdell’s source—intent to soothe.

  . . .

  Her body hummed with rightness. Worries had fled and muscles, once tight, now relaxed. She understood the purpose of this place. In a time of war such a haven would be an invaluable asset. To a troubled elve, such as herself, it was a blessing from the stars. She sent out a thought.

  «Thank you.»

  A gentle caress of warm glowing Energy answered. It was safe here. She was at peace. She was welcome to come again.

  The Twenty-Third Chapter

  SEVERAL DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE Analindë had found the ancient forest and set of rooms tucked deep within the mountain. She hadn’t been back, but peace remained with her. Her anxieties had calmed, her emotional equilibrium remained balanced. She was almost happy.

  She hadn’t sensed her pursuer for a few days, and life was proceeding as if things were normal. There was a lightness to her step that had not been there for a very long time. And she was noticing all sorts of things as she and Erulissé walked along the crowded city streets of Mirëdell. Like the winter birds chatting overhead, and the sprigs of holly tucked festively over lintels and in window boxes. She felt normal. Choices were open before her. She inhaled deeply, savoring the brisk crispness of the clear mountain air.

  She’d chosen to start taking self-defense classes again. Which meant she and Erulissé were going shopping for daggers. Well, Erulissé didn’t know they were shopping for daggers. She thought they were going shopping for a sword. Either way, Analindë was actively choosing her course, determined to learn to ‘fly’ on her own—of course, not in the Pedar sense of the word—but she was choosing the direction she wanted and was making things happen, being active in life and not reactive.

  “I still think that we should have invited one of the Sword Sworn to accompany us,” said Erulissé.

  Analindë cast an amused glance at her friend.

  Erulissé had fallen in love. Again. This one’s name was Lothorian; he was one of the senior aprenti slated to begin their tuvalië next Spring. It gave her the shivers if she took the time to think about it, but the two of them had met at the practice arena last week where Erulissé had lately been spending her free hours.

  “It would be safer,” said Erulissé.

  Analindë shuddered, and not because the wind had picked up just then. “I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

  Including one of the Sword Sworn—of all people—on this jaunt into town would not be normal, and she was determined to regain normalcy in her life. No, Sword Sworn were definitely not normal.

  They turned a corner and headed down the main road. The two ladies were on a mission, destination in mind. There was no need to browse store windows along the way. Analindë smiled as they walked, remembering how they’d come to have their destination in the first place.

  Just yesterday, Erulissé had been flirting with the Sword Sworn Lothorian when she’d whipped out the blade she’d used for ages, attempting to impress the new love of her life. It had been comical to listen to Erulissé’s tortured version of events later that evening. The handsome aprenti had taken one look at the flimsy blade—complete with a girlish motif etched up the blade—that Erulissé had treasured since childhood and had tried and failed not to blanch. Erulissé still occasionally turned bright pink with embarrassment when she spoke of it.

  The Sword Sworn had eloquently admired the beginners sword and very politely—and in a very roundabout way—suggested The Satin Blade as the place to find a weapon more worthy of her.

  Analindë had chided Erulissé about her new flirt. Sword Sworn were different, uncomfortable. They had taken oaths, learned skills and uses for Energy that were only whispered about.

  When no one else was around.

  In the dead of night.

  Behind a locked door.

  Sword Sworn were too unknown, too fast, too extremely good at what they did. They were spies, they were guards, they held high ranking authority. They knew everything. Sensed everything. Read people like books. They were dangerous. Perhaps that’s why Erulissé had been hanging out at the practice arena for the past two weeks. She wanted risk. Either that or she was spying. Spying!

  “Erulissé.” She tugged her friend’s sleeve as they maneuvered the crowded street. “Have you learned anything interesting at the practice arena?”

  Her frown was immediate. “No. Unless you count the knowledge that my sword, the sword my grandmother gave me, is worth less than the scabbard that holds it.”

  And that was why the two young women were weaving through Mirëdell’s marketplace looking for the shop.

  Embarrassed by the encounter and recognizing he spoke nothing but the truth, Erulissé was determined to impress Lothorian by selecting a better blade. Shopping for weapons fit in perfectly with Analindë’s plans, so she’d tagged along without complaint.

  “At least Andulmaion could’ve come with us.”

  Analindë turned to look at her friend. “I thought you were in love with Lothorian?”

  They left the crowded plaza and ducked down a side alleyway. The shortcut would bypass the busiest sections of the city and put them in striking distance of the older shops.

  Erulissé pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “I think it would be better if we traveled with more people.”

  Analindë glanced back at the well lit alleyway and then surveyed the street in front of her. It was a nicer section of town; trees grew along this street. Large planter boxes stuffed with sprigs of holly, winter berries, and colorful ribbons graced store fronts, and older, better-dressed elves quietly strolled, unrushed. Gone were the younger students and the boisterous crowds. This section of town reeked of exclusivity and merchandise was priced accordingly. It didn’t look like a section of town where they’d be attacked. One more street and they’d be there.

  “If we run into trouble, this time I’ll just yell for help instead of running, okay? There are plenty of people around.”

  Analindë had recounted the hair-raising experience of her last foray outside of the school proper and Erulissé was worried. The flutter was quiet today. So she thought it safe for just the two of them to venture out.

  “Lothorian practically invited himself along.”

  “I didn’t want to be a bother to anyone. We should be fine.”

  “It wouldn’t have been a bother. He wanted to come.” She elbowed Analindë with a grin on her face. “Secretly, I’m relieved he didn’t come. It was embarrassing enough to look so silly. I don’t know much about blades. Now I can ask all the questions I need without worrying about looking stupid.” She paused to glance down a side street. “This way I think. They turned right, down the narrow alley.

  The tall buildings down this row cut out most of the light filtering down from above. The cobbles were well tended, the store fronts were clean, and it looked safe. About thirty different weapons stores lined the street. Everything from darts to broadswords could be found and purchased here. Halfway down the narrow street on the left they found The Satin Blade under a black awning. The windows were dingy, unlike the other stores they’d passed, and what they could see of the inside looked cluttered.

  “You’re sure this is the place?” Analindë hesitated as she eyed the obscuring weaves toying with her peripheral vision. She wondered how many people would stroll right past the shop, never knowing it was there.

  “He said that the best could be found here.”
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  “Okay.” Analindë shrugged and wrestled the heavy door open. The springs on the hinges had been tightened to keep the door closed against the cold winter air. She braced the door while Erulissé entered, then she jumped through the opening as the door swung quickly shut behind her.

  Shafts of light shone down from small windows high up on the walls. Dust motes filled the air, but surprisingly, the place did not smell musty. As she took her cloak off, her eyes traveled the length of the store and back. The entryway was cluttered. Blades of all sorts hung in matching sets along one wall, with shelves reaching up to waist level. Glass covered counters with shelves and drawers filled the middle of the floor and a complex shelving area covered the remaining two walls, a small passage to a back room was cut into the back wall.

  Analindë trailed her finger along a two handed sword; it was well made. Very well made. She sensed no flaws within the metal. The blade was serviceable and had been cast with an anti-rust ward. She’d never studied blade making, but she recognized the intent behind the weave from her studies over the past several weeks.

  “How may I assist you?” a melodious voice asked. Analindë swiveled around and tried to keep from gawking. One of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen had just emerged from the back room. She hadn’t expected the Sword Sworn to be beautiful. Hard-edged and lean, yes, but not soft and curvy with a pleasant smile.

  “I’m Tierielle, owner of The Satin Blade.”

  Tierielle? If Analindë didn’t guess wrong, she was standing in front of one of the best swordswomen in the Realm. They’d have to ask around the school when they got back.

  “Tierielle? Of the Western lakes region, Tierielle?” Erulissé obviously didn’t have any qualms about asking the woman directly.

  “Yes, one and the same,” the woman smiled.

  “Oh! Lothorian has spoken of you,” Erulissé gushed. The older woman’s eyes twinkled. She continued, “I’m honored to meet you. I’m Erulissé. This is my friend Analindë.”

  “Ah, nice to meet you both; I see you are friends of my nephew?” Tierielle looked between them questioningly. Realizing that the woman was attempting to figure out which one of them had caught Lothorian’s eye, Analindë nodded toward Erulissé. The woman nodded slightly and turned back to study her friend.

  “Could you point me in the direction of your throwing daggers?” Analindë asked.

  “You might start looking at that selection over there.” She gestured toward a case along the wall of hanging weapons. “On the second shelf are many blades properly weighted for a lady’s hand.”

  “Thank you.” Fit mattered just as much as weight and balance. The dagger needed to have enough heft, but also fit well enough to handle appropriately. Tierielle knew her blades. Analindë moved off toward the case as Erulissé began to explain what type of blade she needed.

  Analindë crouched down to study the row of daggers. Did she really want to carry a pair? Master Therin had mentioned that one day she should learn how to use them and carry them always, but she didn’t know if she wanted to have a pair of daggers constantly strapped to her thigh, tied up under her sleeves, or buckled around her waist. Maybe she should simply get a sword and be done with it. Wouldn’t it be more practical to learn a few offensive spells instead of constantly carrying a weapon? Was this why Master Therin vacillated between allowing her to pursue weapon’s work or not? The practicality of it all?

  She picked up a pretty pair of daggers that looked to be about the right size and weight. She stood and began to test their balance and check them for flaws. She opened her senses fully and was distracted by the most beautiful song. Drawn to it, she closed her eyes, listening to what the melody had to say. It sang of whistling through the wind and dancing on air. It felt of lightness and joy, tempered with sorrow. It was pure and strong, vibrant in purpose and of strength of ages past.

  Her eyes followed the melody upward; she set the forgotten daggers down and stared unblinking at the pair of djari mounted on the wall in front of her. They were compact travel staves built for a woman’s frame. The dark ebony handle was offset and reinforced by inlaid silver and grooving. She saw through the wood to the hidden, shining metal blades. They were stronger than anything she’d ever sensed. They were finely etched using glyphs she could not read. The language must be long forgotten for she didn’t recognize the pattern.

  The djari were shielded.

  Their origin, their intent, and their design were masked so well that she had a difficult time even holding on to the idea that they were hiding from her. Interesting that they sang out to her while hiding at the same time. Then she realized that they hid from everyone, not just her. The mask actively pushed against her mind, pointing her thoughts elsewhere. She didn’t mind and let them be pushed.

  She saw the trigger button that would expand the short djari into a bladed staff as tall as she. The pair could also transform into dueling swords used singly or together, depending on the fighting technique or stance that was needed.

  The song increased and it was all she could do to not reach up and pull the pair of djari from the wall. It would be impolite to handle the ancient weapons without Tierielle’s consent, so she forcefully discarded the impulse, tucked her hands behind her back, and let her mind drift with the song.

  The melody became louder, clearer. A counterpoint began to dance with the rushing of air, but it consisted not of notes in the traditional sense, but of the sounds of actions past. It was the hot ripple of muscle. Flexing in practice drills well known. It was footsteps. Marching in synch. Stealthy treads and hops. Gliding movement, patterns, the shush of clothing as arms brushed a torso, as legs moved a body forward. A rhythm formed and she recognized the cadence. The beats matched perfectly with the Warrior’s Dance of the Morning. The drills she’d watched Riian practice several times a day the lone summer he’d briefly decided to become Sword Sworn.

  It was a song of complexity. Counterpoint and balance. Preparation for battle, coupled with the need to remain at peace. Wisdom and skill, youth and vitality.

  The unfettered freedom of flight, grounded with the need to be wielded. She smelt the sweat of hard work and felt the exhilaration of accomplishment while the fierce desire to protect kindled within her heart.

  There was honor here. Integrity born of diligent adherence to the truth. Courage to stand for what was right. Protect the weak, defend those that need defending. Committed, not just now, but forever, through all time.

  And just underneath those stalwart themes lay the greatest of sorrows. Pain, suffering, and guilt. Knowledge of the horrors of war and grief stemming from loss. The complete and utter exhaustion at battles end and the weary spirit of the survivor. Always the wise counterpoint arguing of not rushing off to war, that there was no gloriousness in battle, but only that of expedient need. These harsh things were softened. Gentled by years of passing.

  It was a siren’s song. It called to her, offering comfort and companionship. It wanted to sing among the living once more and be allowed to do good deeds. It was something to be relied upon in times of great need. It was indomitable. It would never falter. It was making her dizzy.

  The djari flashed brightly, she blinked and the light was gone. She gripped the counter in front of her to hold herself upright. At least she meant to, but her hands didn’t work so she leaned against her hip. The store seemed darker than before; dull shafts of light illuminated columns of dusty air.

  She blinked again. Her mind spun, trying to make sense of where she was, what was happening. She looked down at the pair of djari she clutched tightly; they’d transformed themselves into swords. She didn’t remember pulling the weapons from the wall, but they felt right in her hands, like they were at home. The grip was perfect, made for her hand. Each stave-sword perfectly weighted and balanced. The cool ebony and silver grips tingled against her fingers, then stilled. Calm filled her and all seemed right in the world.

  Analindë reverently laid the djari on the counter before h
er. Letting her fingers trace the silvery patterns etched on their blades as she withdrew her hands, she stepped back. It was a reverent moment.

  The djari did not fit in with her plans of being normal. She took another step back, putting a respectful distance between herself and the shelf.

  “Analindë,” her softly spoken name sounded loud in the room. Tierielle stood close at her side but did not touch. Erulissé stood just behind the Sword Sworn peering over and around her shoulder. The rhythms and cadences of the djari still thrummed loudly in her mind. It took her a moment to realize that her friend’s eyes were wide in shock. Oh dear, had she done more than hold the weapons? Her mind shifted from sluggish visions of things long past to rapid calculation. Her gaze snapped from Erulissé’s worried eyes to Tierielle’s guarded ones.

  “I am sorry. I never meant to remove them from the wall,” said Analindë.

  “Worry not, sometimes they call too strongly to resist. May I see which pair interested you?”

  Analindë stumbled back out of the way. “Yes, please.”

  Tierielle leaned close to examine the djari but did not touch. A second later shocked eyes fastened on her face, searching. The stars in her eyes swirled in worry.

  “Who did you say you were?” she demanded.

  “Analindë, of Lindënolwë.”

  Her face became shuttered and the stars in her eyes began to dance in curiosity. “Oh.” She nodded once, then stepped back.

  “It has a beautiful song,” Analindë said tentatively.

  “You heard it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. It’s complex rhythms and melodies still rang softly in her head.

  “Tell me?” The woman coaxed. So Analindë did.

  “You hear well.” The Sword Sworn’s eyes turned, calculating as she swept her gaze over Analindë. “Better than most, or dare I say, all but the best.”

  Analindë didn’t know what to say to the woman who had more experience and renown than any other Sword Sworn of her or her parent’s generation. What was a reply to that? She swallowed; her throat hurt and her mouth was dry. Had she been singing or shouting some old battle cry as she’d held the djari? Oh Stars! She hoped not.