Sword

by Amy Bai

  "Begin," he said softly, and Kyali brought her arms up, muscles protesting all down her back, to trace the first of the Fraonir Forms of Sword Combat against the glassy morning sky. The point of Arlen's sword mirrored hers, barely inches away. They circled one another in slow, endless revolutions, sketching patterns in the air as they made their way through the two hundred and twelve Forms. Sweat ran into her eyes and down her neck. Her breath, coming in the rhythmic pattern that matched these movements, burned in her throat. But her mind was as clear as the perfect bowl of the sky, filled with the flash of the sword and the feel of it extending her arms.

  "Enough," her teacher finally declared, looking a bit worse for wear himself. Kyali staggered backward gasping, her head humming. It took her three tries to sheathe her sword; she was trembling with exhaustion. Arlen watched, expressionless.

  "Well done," he said when she had finally managed it. She looked up, certain he was mocking her sudden inability to make her wrists work, but he actually seemed pleased. "Truly," he added, seeing her disbelief. "Well done, Kyali. Did you think these lessons were easy? For anyone? You've mastered a great deal in one year."

  Mastered? She could barely stand. She looked at her hands, which were weathered by sun and wind, and so covered with calluses they looked like a farmer's. Like they belonged to somebody else.

  Arlen tipped her chin up. "No part of it's easy," he said, sympathy plain in his voice for a rare moment. "Particularly not for you."

  "I… " She shut her mouth again. She couldn't think of a thing to say to that.

  "You're doing well," Arlen said then, almost too quickly, as though he didn't want this discussion to go… wherever he had thought it might go. It was one of his odder habits, completely unlike his usual methodical calm, and it always left her wondering what dread Clan secrets he feared she might learn. "We can move on to the Forms for mounted combat now, I think."

  Whatever expression was on her face, it made him laugh outright. "Those lessons should go faster," her teacher added, apparently meaning it as reassurance.

  For one horrible, overwhelmed moment, she was afraid she was going to either shout at him or weep. She drew a slow breath, fighting to make her face still. "How many more?" she asked carefully, after a brief pause to get a firm grip on her composure.

  "Oh, just sixty more for swordcraft ahorse. Were you to learn the staff or the spear as well, we'd be at this for many more years."

  "Oh," Kyali said faintly. "I don't have a horse, Arlen."

  "Yes, you do—you just haven't been introduced. We brought her over from the Eanin Clan a fortnight past, and she's been waiting—impatiently, I might add; you two should be a match in temperament if nothing else—for you to finish your footwork."

  This had a slightly grudging tone. The Eanin were the sister Clan to the Darachim, living on the western ridge, and while the Darachim were reputed better at fighting, nobody in the world bred horses like the Eanin did. Her father had one, long ago, and still spoke of it like it had fallen from the skies in a shaft of light.

  "I…"

  She was at a loss for words far too often today. She scowled, then nodded, because there was nothing else to do. She'd wondered about fighting astride, but a whole new set of Forms seemed excessive.

  "Come on," Arlen said. "We're due a breakfast, and you're due a meeting with your horse. Rest yourself, if Saraid gives you the chance. I'm taking you out on patrol this afternoon.”

  He turned back toward the camp on this startling declaration, leaving her to follow, and to swallow a number of useless questions. She had learned in the first week here that Arlen would only answer the unasked ones, only comment when a subject was no longer in her thoughts, and in most cases, preferred to let her stew and come to her own mistaken conclusions.

  The camp was empty when they returned, all the Clansfolk out hunting deer or on patrol, guarding against outlaws and the occasional incursion by the Allaida on the northwest border, who sometimes climbed the mountains to raid. Only Saraid remained by the common hearth, sitting on a bench and finishing off a bowl of porridge. Her gray hair was so long she was practically sitting on it. Kyali fetched herself a bowl, then fetched another for Arlen, who wandered off with it to whatever else a Clan leader might have to do for the day. When he was out of sight, Kyali folded herself stiffly onto the ground, trying not to groan.

  "You look done in," her other teacher murmured.

  "I'm well enough."

  Saraid aimed a wry and somewhat exasperated look at her and Kyali felt her shoulders draw up and her face heat. Saraid could tell a lie from a hundred paces.

  "Not always," the old woman said placidly. "It's harder than you imagine, and I'm certainly not listening all the time. Do you not think I have better things to occupy myself with?"

  Her face only got hotter. Kyali ducked her head to the porridge and ended up with far too large a mouthful. "I hope... you do," she managed to choke out. "I'd hate to think this was your only source of amusement."

  Saraid's lined face twitched into a smile. "No, I've several sources, never fear. But you're a challenge, child, with your sober face and all your thoughts hidden behind it. I never could resist a challenge. Finish your porridge, now. It's new lessons all around today. I've something to show you about breath…"

  * * *

  If she breathed any harder, she was going to faint. Wouldn't that be mortifying?

  Kyali shifted, wishing she could have sat on a blanket, or one of the folding canvas chairs the Fraonir favored—or her own cloak, for that matter. The crackle of a small campfire teased her ears, but no warmth found her skin. There was snow on the air this morning, a cold bite that clouded her breath and stung her cheeks, and the cloak was a comfort. But there were small rocks on the ground here, and the harder she tried to concentrate, the more they made themselves known. The cloak would have served better under her, rather than on her.

  Maybe this was Saraid's new tactic: discomfort. They had already managed confusion, frustration, and exhaustion.

  Magic, she was perpetually discovering, was both easier and much harder than it was made to sound by the inept court wizards of her childhood, who had only their books of philosophy and history to offer. Easier, because among the Fraonir it was actually possible; harder because it was work. And harder because every tiny success was accompanied by a blinding headache. Though Saraid promised that would fade, with time and practice.

  The wizards’ lessons seemed even more pointless up here, where calling birds, or summoning gusts of wind, or hearing thoughts, or telling an arrow where to fly, or any of the other myriad little Gifts that cropped up among the Clans, seemed commonplace.

  Memory dragged her mind from the task: sitting despondent at a table in Faestan castle, a book of theory open in front of her and Master Emayn droning on about the structure of the world. Taireasa making hideous, hilarious faces every time the old man turned his back—and finally flinging a handful of stolen goosefeathers into the hearth so that the flames flared high and the smell drove them all out of the room.

  Gods. She was never going to get anywhere with this if she couldn't manage to concentrate.

  "Kyali. Open your eyes."

  She did, prepared to see that slight crinkle between Saraid's brows that meant she was doing poorly. Instead she saw fire, red and gold and blurrily close, as though without moving she had somehow come nearer to the shallow pit. She squinted. Her eyes watered. A line of flame snaked toward her hand where it rested on her knee, and she watched it uncomprehending; held her breath, foolishly, as though a bird had come to land on her. It touched her skin. There was no pain.

  She hadn't come closer to the fire. It had come closer to her.

  "Saraid…" Her voice was wobbly and rough. She bit it off.

  "Shhhh." Her magic tutor knelt close, her face soft in the glow of the fire. Her eyes were wide and wondering. "Oh, child," Saraid murmured. "No wonder this makes your head hurt so. What a thing."

  "So this isn't�
�" She couldn't hold it. The pain in her head was making her queasy. The fire in her hand became smoke and blew away with the cold wind, and Kyali slumped forward to press at her temples. Saraid's cold hand landed on her neck, began to rub at the knotted muscles there.

  "No, Kyali" she said. "It's not common. It's not even been heard of, what you just did—not for many long years. As you've guessed."

  "What am I supposed to do with it?" Kyali asked, pain pitching the words too high.

  She could feel Saraid's shrug through the old woman’s fingertips. "Whatever you have to. For now, we work at it, until doing this doesn't make you fall over. Do you think you can stand to try again?"

  No answers, as usual. That, the Fraonir had in common with the theory-mad wizards of Lardan. Kyali straightened.

  "I guess we'll find out," she muttered.

  * * *

  She had thought, in those first few panic-filled weeks among the Fraonir, that walking on the edge of a mountain path was the most frightening thing she had ever done. The land seemed to leap away from one's feet. The tops of trees looked like shrubs. A pebble could fall for what must surely be hours before striking ground—and surely, so too might one muscle-sore, travel-weary general's daughter standing too close to the edge and trying to hide the fact that she was shivering.

  Riding on a mountain path was far worse.

  Riding a mountain path on a headstrong mare determined to test her rider's will was terrifying.

  "I don't think…" Kyali swallowed a mortifying yelp and reined hard left as Ainhearag's hooves crumbled dirt at the edge. "I… damn it!" This as her horse bounced at a chipmunk in a tree and shied back toward the drop.

  Kyali drew a breath that seemed at once too small and too large for her chest, then let it out slowly. Then she pressed a knee into Ainhearag's side and tugged once, sharply, on the reins. Her fractious Fraonir gift bucked gently—she did yelp this time, damn it all—then settled into the pretense of good behavior.

  "I don't suppose," she finished, groping for her lost dignity, though it was probably halfway down the mountain by now, "that we might try her gait in the trees."

  Her teacher said nothing. After a frowning moment, Kyali turned back to where Arlen was riding behind her and found him laughing, silently but quite hard, into a hand.

  She turned back around and kicked her horse into the trees.

  She used too firm a heel. Ainhearag took the order with enthusiasm, bolting up the slope and into a thick copse of mountain pine before Kyali had a chance to choose a proper point of entry. In another second she was shielding her face from a hundred pine boughs, branches breaking all about her, as her horse forged a way through by main force. Between the two of them, they sounded like an army of sots lost in a forest.

  After a brief struggle they came to a halt. Kyali sighed and stared at the pommel of the saddle.

  "Interesting tactic," Arlen said, his cool, uninflected voice somehow compounding the disdain in his words. He and his own warhorse, Itairis, had come up on them almost silently. "I'm sure any outlaws camping in the vicinity are long gone now."

  Was it possible to blush harder than this? She met Arlen's eyes with difficulty, hissing at Ainhearag when her horse made a reach after a branch. "I apologize," she said, bowing in the saddle.

  "Words are well enough, girl. Words are easy. Show me you can do better."

  Footwork began to seem pleasant compared to this.

  Kyali bit her lip and turned her horse into deeper forest, sitting gingerly in the saddle, braced for Ainhearag's next disastrous attempt at mischief. She couldn't afford such foolishness out here, away from the safety of the Darachim borders, out where outlaws and raiders made their temporary homes. They rode forward, quieter, and she met every twitch of Ainhearag's reckless head with a twitch of the reins and a shifting of her seat. It was exhausting, particularly riding through dense woods—but after what felt like hours of struggle, her horse heaved a heartfelt sigh and began to obey without argument.

  Kyali let out a sigh of her own and stretched muscles knotted tight. "What now?" she murmured.

  There was no reply.

  "Arlen?"

  It was too quiet.

  Turning in the saddle gave her a view of trees: endless, crowded trees… and no teacher.

  Panic and annoyance shot through her in equal parts, banishing all her weariness. She opened her mouth to shout for him, but thought better of that and instead urged Ainhearag aside quickly, pointing them into deeper cover. There they came to a halt.

  It was no doubt one of Arlen's lessons—he had ambushed her far too many times in the last year, until now her nerves twitched at every unexpected noise and shadow—but it was impossible to tell. She'd been too focused on her horse. She couldn't even remember when she'd stopped hearing Itairis's careful hooves behind them. And this was not a place to make assumptions of safety.

  Ainhearag had gone still and tense in response to her own tension. They stood, listening to the wind whisper through the leaves. Far off, birds chattered at one another, but Kyali heard none around her.

  She drew her sword.

  She didn't question why. It was an act as necessary as breath, and every nerve in her was insisting on it. As soon as its comforting weight was balanced in her hands, Ainhearag shifted to a wider, more dangerous-feeling stance and turned one white-rimmed eye back toward her rider.

  "Easy," Kyali murmured, listening hard. "Be easy."

  Far off, a branch snapped. Closer, the bushes rustled.

  She took a slow breath, willing herself calm, and pressed Ainhearag gently forward. Then the brush behind them spoke and she hissed a curse and kicked her horse into a run, not questioning that instinct either. Ainhearag bolted forward. Branches whipped into her face and eyes. Suddenly, a bow seemed like a very useful weapon.

  Behind and all around them, the woods were coming alive.

  Ainhearag launched into a full gallop and Kyali leaned forward, pressing her face to a neck wet with sweat and lively with straining, moving muscle. In their wake she could hear an increasing din of feet and hooves and shouts.

  She'd sprung something, gods help her, and there was no telling even now if it was one of Arlen's surprises, but she was dreadfully afraid it wasn't. Arlen might, in fact, be caught in it.

  Ainhearag made for the thinning edge of the deep woods, her powerful neck stretched completely out and her ears back. Kyali spared a single thought toward the possibility that they were about to run off a cliff, but it was impossible to turn or to stop: it sounded like at least fifteen men behind her, several of them mounted.

  "Gods!" she gasped as the daylight hit her full in the face. Something whined past her ear; something else struck her leather-armored shoulder with numbing force, and she understood that whoever they were, they had bows, damn it all.

  It wasn't a lesson. It was an ambush, and it was deadly.

  She heard something else then, something worse—the rattle and ring of steel being pulled from sheaths—and she set her heels into Ainhearag's sides. Allaida: It had to be a party of Allaida that had gotten well inside the Fraonir's defenses. No band of outlaws, however well-organized, would be so armed.

  "Raiders!" Kyali cried to any Fraonir who might be in earshot as they broke from the trees and Ainhearag's hooves struck rock.

  The first man came alongside. She saw the horse first and then his short sword flashed in her vision and all she saw was sky: she had flattened herself backwards without even knowing that she was going to try such a mad move. Her horse's flanks roiled under her shoulders. Her arms came up, again without her conscious direction. A jolt like a thunderbolt rattled up to her shoulders and steel sang out as his blade went flying free from his grip. He shouted and went down, then she was past him and Ainhearag was shouldering another man aside.

  Kyali sat up, saw a party ahorse breaking cover from the other side of the clearing, and felt an icy inevitability sink into her belly. She gripped her sword, thinking bleakly of Taireasa, of
Devin, of everything she was to do that would, after today, have to be done by somebody else. She set her feet more firmly in the stirrups and kicked Ainhearag toward that advancing group, meaning to carve a path through them if she could—and then realized, as they grew closer and their dun-and-green tunics, the swords and bows over their shoulders, became clear, that she was looking at a Darachim patrol.

  It was a rescue.

  "Blessed gods," she whispered. She leaned down once more, pressing her face to Ainhearag's warm, wet coat. The Allaida were losing ground—nothing could be faster than this wonderful horse of hers, now that she had her head. The Darachim spread out, making room for her. Kyali got the reins in one hand and wheeled Ainhearag wide around as they met.

  "Fine company you keep, sword student," one of the rangers shouted—it was hard to tell who, as they all wore mottled green cloth over their faces. Kyali nodded grimly, heart still pounding with terror… and with something else, something she'd only felt once before, struggling with an assassin in her father's cellar. A fierce, cold anger beat in her breast, urging her forward, her and her horse and her sword, to meet the enemy. She'd heard soldiers speak of such things happening in battle, but she'd never looked to know such a thing herself.

  She wasn't sure she liked it.

  She wasn't sure she didn't, either.

  And it didn't matter right now. All that mattered was the messy charge of Allaida pelting toward them, their cavalry, such as they were, nearly running down the infantry as they rushed forward.

  "This ought to be interesting," somebody muttered—it sounded like Donel—which was when Kyali realized there were only five rangers and herself to face this onslaught. She felt a breathless terror grip her insides, and then that cold, angry part of her mind noted how spread out the Allaida were, how weak their line was.

  "Form up!" she blurted, and got several bewildered looks. The Allaida were almost on them, and she wasn't with her father's soldiers, who knew how to meet an enemy on open ground. The Fraonir fought in the trees, a quieter sort of warfare that tended toward ambush. This encounter was going to be far more like what her father's officers had taught her about.