Sword Born ss-5

by Jennifer Roberson

  My eyes snapped open. I lay in my hermitage, arms and hands as always — now — tucked up against my chest. With effort I let go the tension, let the body settle. Felt the stone beneath my cheek.

  The memory of steel. Of a man in the circle. Of the woman, the sword, the song.

  I lay very still upon the stone, not even breathing. Tentatively I slid one hand beneath the fabric of the robe and felt the flesh of my abdomen, recalling the pain, the icy fire, the horrific weakness engendered by the wound. Touched scar tissue.

  Breath rasped as I expelled it in a rush. Scar tissue, where none had been after Sahdri lifted it from me. Knurled, resculpted flesh, a rim around the crater left by the jivatma. My abdomen burned with remembered pain.

  Sweat ran from me. Relief was tangible.

  Magic. Power. Conjuring reality from dreams. Using it without volition even as Sahdri had warned.

  But for this? Was this so bad, to find a piece of myself once taken away and make it whole again, even though this wholeness was a travesty of the flesh?

  Yes. For this. For myself.

  I shut my eyes. Thank you, bascha.

  From the winch-house I took a length of wood, carried it to my hermitage. From the wall I took a piece of stone. Made it over into the shape of an adze. Then dropped it as I fell, as I curled upon the stone, and trembled terribly in the aftermath of a terrible magic.

  Discipline.

  When I could, I sat up and took the stone adze, took the wood, and began to work it. To shape a point of the narrowest end.

  Discipline.

  When the spear was made, I lay down upon the stone and gripped it, willing myself to sleep. Willing myself to dream.

  — sandtiger —

  At dawn the boy crept out of the hyort. He was to tend the goats, but he did not go there. He carried a spear

  made out of a broken hyort pole, painstakingly worked with a stone, and went instead to the tumbled pile of rocks near the oasis that had shaped itself, in falling, into a modest cave.

  A lair.

  He knelt there before the mouth and prayed to the gods, that they might aid him. That they might give him strength, and power, and the will to do what was necessary.

  Kill the beast.

  Save the tribe.

  Win his freedom.

  He received no answer from the gods; but gods and their power, their magic, were often random, wholly unpredictable. No man might know what or when they might speak. But he put his faith in them, put his faith in the magic of his imagination, and crept into the lair.

  The sandtiger had fed only the afternoon before. It was sated, sleeping. The boy moved very carefully into the cave that was also lair, and found the beast there in the shadows, its belly full of girl-child.

  He placed the tip of his spear into the throat, and thrust.

  And thrust.

  Bore the fury, the outrage. Withstood even the claws, envenomed and precise. One knee. One cheek. But he did not let go of the spear.

  When the beast was dead, he vomited. The poison was in him. Retching, he backed his way out of the lair that reeked now of the death of the beast, its effluvia, of his own vomit.

  He stood up, trembling, and made his way very carefully back to the cluster of hyorts. To the old shukar, maker of magic. And claimed he had killed the beast.

  No one believed him.

  But when he fell ill of the poison, Sula took him in. Sula made them go. And when they came back with the dead beast and the clawed, tooth-shattered speaf she bade them cure the pelt even as she cured the chula.

  When he was healed, when he could speak again despite the pain in his cheek, he asked for the sandtiger. It was brought to him. With great care, with Sula’s knife, he cut each claw out of the paws, pierced them, and strung them on a thong.

  It was argued that he was chula, and thus claimed no rights for killing the beast. But Sula insisted; how many men, how many women, how many children now would survive because of the chula?

  Wearing nothing but the necklet, he stood before the tribe and was told to go.

  Sula gave him clothing. Sula gave him food. Sula gave him water.

  Sula gave him leave to go, to become a man.

  I fell back in the dimness, gasping, cheek ablaze with pain. Blood dripped; I set the back of my hand against it, felt the sting of raw and weeping flesh. Then fingers, to seek. Examine.

  I counted the fresh furrows. Four. Welcomed the pain, the tangible proof that I was I again. With or without magic.

  I looked then at the sandtiger in its lair, where I had tracked it. Where I had killed it, so I might win my freedom.

  Sahdri, in a rictus of astonishment, lay dead of a spear through the throat.

  Sahdri, who had served his gods with absolute dedication, so absolute as to amputate fingers, pierce my flesh, tattoo my scalp.

  To see nothing wrong in robbing a man of his past, his freedom, so his future would be built on the architecture of magic, and madness.

  The shudder wracked me. I bent, cradled hands against me. Felt the heat running down my face to drip upon the stone. To trickle into my mouth.

  I straightened slowly. Licked my lip and tasted blood. Tangible blood.

  I welcomed the pain. And I gave myself leave to go, to become a man. Again.

  Sword-dancer. Sandtiger. Again. Still.

  In the winch-house I weighted the net and sent it plunging downward. When it reached the bottom, I tied the winch-drum into place and took hold of the rope that spilled over the lip of stone.

  I had leaped from a spire. I could surely climb down a rope.

  At the bottom I released the rope. Walked four paces. Saw the world reverse before me: everything light was dark, everything dark became light. Black was white, white was black. With nothing in between.

  I knelt down, shut my eyes, prayed for the fit to pass.

  When I could stand again, walk again, I sought and found seven of ten claws. Gathered them up. Tied them into the hem of my robe. And walked through the Stone Forest to the edge of the island.

  At the ocean I looked for boats, for ships, and found none. That they came to ioSkandi, I knew; Sahdri had said there was trade of a sort. But none was present now.

  Wind beat on the waves. Weary, I knelt upon the shore, let sea spray cool my burning face. Gripped the claws through linen, counting seven of ten.

  I sat down then in the sand. Waves lapped, soaked me. I didn’t care. I took the claws from the hem, pulled thread from the fabric, and began to string a necklet.

  When I was done, when the necklet was knotted around my throat, I sat in sand, soaked by wave and wind, and gripped the curving claws. Pain flared anew in the stumps of the missing fingers. It set me to sweating.

  Abdomen. Cheek. Claws. Bit by bit, I would fit the pieces of me back together again.

  Magic or no.

  Madness or no.

  Discipline.

  Sahdri and the others made of it a religion, a new and alien zealotry I could not embrace. So I embraced what I already knew, renewed in myself that zealotry: the rituals and rites of Alimat. Lost myself in the patterns of the dance, the techniques of the sword. Stepped into the circle of the mind, and won.

  Discipline.

  I took seawrack, driftwood, a tattered piece of linen, and after four days of desperation, futility, and multitudinous curses, vows, and promises made to nonexistent gods, I finally conjured a ship.

  Discipline.

  A half-day and blinding headache later it sailed me into the caldera, where I saw no blue-sailed ships. No redheaded women captains. No fair-haired Northern baschas.

  They believed I was dead. All of them.

  Except the one who had set the trap.

  I left behind seawrack, driftwood, and tattered linen. The basin-men, the molah-men, spying the shaven, tattooed head, the rings in ears and brow, fell away from me without offering their services even at exorbitant prices. Instead they shouted, called out curses, made ward-signs against magic, madne
ss, and the ikepra.

  Discipline.

  I climbed the treacherous track to the top of the cliff, where basin-men, molah-men, women, wives, children, and merchants made ward-signs against the ikepra.

  The ikepra, who by now was exhausted enough to want nothing better than to tumble into bedding and sleep for two tendays, ignored it all and walked.

  In truth, the ikepra did more wobbling than walking, but the end result was the same: I reached Akritara. By sundown.

  Simonides came out of the house to tell the ikepra to leave. Then blanched white as he truly saw the ikepra. "Alive!"

  I wasted no time. "Where’s Del?"

  He swallowed, closed his eyes, stared at me again. Said, in Skandic, "Praise all the gods of the sky!"

  "Where’s Del?"

  He set a trembling hand to the wall, as if he might fall without the support. "Gone. Both of them. They sailed."

  I had expected it. Had prepared for it. But the despair was profound.

  The ikepra showed none of it. Only cold control. "When?"

  Simonides took his hand from the wall and gathered himself. "A threeday ago."

  "At whose behest?"

  His face was strained. "Mine."

  He meant the metri’s. "I was dead, so why extend the guest-right to unnecessary people?"

  "There was no place…" He attempted to regain self-control, began again. "There was no place here for the renegada woman."

  "Del?"

  "She said — she said this was not her home. Nor yours." His expression was anguished. "She would not stay in the place that had killed you."

  "Well," I said, "that’s settled for the moment. Time I saw the metri."

  "Wait!" His hand extended to stop me, fell away limply. "She is unwell. The shock…"

  I offered neither diplomacy nor compassion. "Too bad."

  His eyes sought my face, examined the ring-pierced brows, the tattooed patterns on my skull. Had the grace to comprehend some small measure of the shock I had been subjected to.

  "Of course," he murmured, turning to escort me into her presence.

  The metri stood in the center of an arch-roofed room, surrounded by pools of rich fabric — tunics — draped over the bed, the chair, the chest, puddled on the floor; a scattering of jewelry glinting of gold and glass in the lamplight; a handful of old flowers, dulled by years into brittle, pale, dusty semblances of what once had been bright and lively, and fresh.

  As I came into the room she looked up from the flowers. Saw me. And the blooms were crumbled into dust and ash by the spasming of her fingers closing into trembling fists.

  Even her lips were white. "Alive."

  "Despite every effort to insure otherwise," I said, "and somewhat more and certainly less than I was"— I held out my hands, palms up —"but incontestably alive."

  She was transfixed by my hands, by the evidence of mutilation. The stumps had healed, but were pink-and-purple against the tanned flesh. I have big hands, wide palms, long fingers; anyone, looking at my hands, would see at once something was missing.

  Her pupils swelled to black as she stared into my face.

  "A man born to the sword," I said, "is somewhat hampered by an — injury — such as this." I watched the flinching in her eyes. "Is this what you intended?"

  She exhaled it. "I?"

  In some distant, detached way, I appreciated the delicacy of her tone, the reaction honed to just the right degree of shock and denial. "Your boy," I said, "was feeling threatened. Your boy was truly afraid you might name me in his place. Your boy was on the verge of stepping outside your control. So you removed a piece from the board. A piece that had served a very important, if temporary, function, and was now viewed as unnecessary. Possibly even dangerous to the overall intent of the game." I paused. "Could you not have told him the truth from the beginning?"

  The metri said, "He would not have played his part properly."

  "Ah." I nodded. "And when will you teach him the rules?"

  "There are none. Only an object: to win."

  "Whose body was it that came in so handy?"

  The tilt of her head shifted minutely. "I believed it was yours."

  I laughed sharply, a brief blurt of sound. And in pure, unaccented, formal Skandic, the kind spoken only among the Eleven Families, I told her she was a liar.

  The Stessa metri began to tremble.

  "What did you think would happen?" I asked. "Did you think I would merge, thus removing all possibility I might return to complicate your life? Did you think I would forget everything I knew of my life before I was put atop the spire? Did you think I would be unchanged, and therefore not even due a momentary memory of my presence in your world?" I shook my head slowly. "I am as I always was. A sword-dancer. The Sandtiger. But with a little extra thrown into the pot. A pinch more seasoning than I had before."

  Simonides, behind me, said very quietly, "Mage."

  The metri met my eyes. "Mad."

  "If I am either, or if I am both," I said, smiling, "perhaps you should be afraid."

  The metri gazed down at her hands, still doubled into fists. Slowly she opened them, saw the crushed remains of ancient flowers. After a moment she turned her hands palm down and began to shed those remains. Dust, and bits of stem and petal. Drifting to the floor.

  Tears shone in her eyes as she looked at me. "This was my daughter’s room."

  Tunics, jewelry, the keepsakes of a woman’s life. Surrounding the woman who had borne her.

  Who had banished her.

  "My daughter," she said, "has been dead for forty-two years."

  And I was forty.

  "Go," the metri commanded.

  The ikepra went.

  I stepped out of the house into the courtyard, bathed in moon- and starlight, and the sword arced out of the darkness.

  I caught the hilt one-handed. Hissed as pain kindled into a bonfire in that hand.

  "Alive?" Herakleio stepped from shadows into moonlight. "Well then, perhaps we should remedy that." And brought his own blade up.

  I thought of laughing at him. I thought of saying no. I thought of pleading fatigue. Pain. Inability to even grip the sword properly.

  But all of that was what Herakleio wished to hear.

  He came at me then, as I had gone at him the evening Sahdri arrived in our midst, floating atop the wall. This was no circle, no dance, no sparring, but engagement with intent. No rules, no codes, no vows, no honor.

  I had meant to intimidate, because I knew the difference. Herakleio meant to take all of his anger and frustration out on me. To punish me. Put me in my place. Render me defeated.

  Kill me? No. Unless he got lucky.

  Of course, I had two fingers fewer than before, and all wagers were off.

  I heard Simonides’ blurt of shocked denial from the doorway. But Herakleio was on me, and I had no time for servants, metris, or magic. All I had was myself.

  A sword.

  And the dance of the mind, contained within its circle.

  Discipline.

  When I was done, Herakleio lay sprawled upon the courtyard tiles. He bled from a dozen cuts. His blade had been flung well out of reach against a wall, hidden by shadow; he had only himself now, winded, wounded, humiliated, and that was not enough.

  Not for me. Not for himself. Possibly not for the metri.

  But she had no one else.

  I tossed my sword aside, so he would not see me shaking. "We’re done," I said. "I bequeath to you all of the things you believed I had taken from you, or would. I want none of them. None of you, none of her, none of this place. I am due nothing as a son or a grandson; I am neither. I am a seventh-level sword-dancer, trained by the shodo of Alimat and sworn to the rites and rituals of the circle. That is all. And that is more than ever I dreamed of."

  Because all I had ever dreamed of was freedom.

  And, one night, a sandtiger.

  I turned from him then, and walked. Out of the courtyard. Away from the household. Down the
track toward the city, the cliff, the caldera.

  Simonides found me. I had collapsed at the side of the track, overtaken by pain so intense it bathed my body in sweat and set tears in my eyes; by reaction so profound I could not even manage to sit. I lay curled on my side, arms tucked in against my chest in vain attempt to ward my hands from further offense. I rocked against the soil, smelling saltwater, grapes, and blood from a bitten lip.

  The hand touched my shoulder. "I have water," he said in a rusty voice.

  Eventually I sat up. Let him give me water, since I dared not even hold the jar, or the cup. A rivulet ran down my chin and dripped onto the dusty linen of my robe.

  "I have food," he said, "and clothing. And coin."

  "Sword?" I rasped.

  "No."

  Ah, well. I had come without one. Why expect to leave with one?

  "They sailed a threeday ago," he said. "The metri owns swift ships. I will pay your passage and inform the captain he is to take you wherever you wish to go. But there is only one renegada ship boasting blue sails. He will know it."

  "Is this at the metri’s behest?"

  "It is at my behest."

  In the moonlight, the slave’s face was both worried and compassionate. "You’re risking yourself again, Simonides."

  "This is no risk."

  "Or is it you think it’s owed me, slave to slave?"

  "Slaves," he said, and stopped. Then began again, with difficulty. "Slaves do what they must to survive. To make a life, and to find the freedom within. But there need not be dishonor in it, if there are ways to find a measure of dignity and integrity."

  Dishonor lay in what one thought of himself. Not in what others believed.

  I nodded. "Will this captain take orders from you?"

  Solemnly he said, "I am the eyes and ears of the metri."

  I drank again, nodded thanks for the aid. Stood up with effort, but got there. "So, what kind of clothing did you bring?"

  The smile was slight. "What you arrived in."

  In mock horror I cried, "Not the red clothes!"

  "Well," he said, "red does suit you."

  Del had said that once. Maybe she would approve of the garb when I caught up to her.

  Or maybe she wouldn’t notice at all.

  Or maybe she’d notice, but I wouldn’t be wearing them long enough to matter.