Sword-Bound

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Sword-Bound Page 33

by Jennifer Roberson


  The stud, of a wonder, drank.

  “Should have thought of this first,” I muttered.

  The stud’s water was gone quickly. The last sips remaining in the two botas ran down my throat. Not enough, but I wasn’t doing the work. The stud was.

  I grabbed the wet burnous from the sand, slung it up and over the saddle. The bota strings went over my shoulder. I swung up hastily, botas flapping against my ribs, and kicked the stud back into a run.

  “Sorry, old son. Just no choice.”

  The sun went down. The moon came up. Light was muted, but I could see well enough. Now Punja sand was intermixed with rocks, scrub, low trees, dry and stickery grass. Snake and vermin holes. But there was also a track, a well-worn track with better footing, because this was the main route across the Punja.

  Sweat lay on the stud’s neck, reins rubbing it into white foam. Sweat rolled down his flanks. He wasn’t laboring yet—he was much too fit—but I didn’t doubt that he felt the exertion.

  I halted him. Jumped off. Dug a basin. Threw burnous across it, emptied two botas. This time I didn’t need to tell the stud to drink.

  I drank, too. A live horse with a dead rider would do me no good, especially if I was the dead rider. Four of ten full botas remained, but it wasn’t much under the circumstances. Umir had thought of water for riding. He hadn’t thought of water for running.

  Sweat rolled down the stud’s face. The hair beneath his headstall and halter was soaked. As I stood before him, he pressed his head against me and commenced to rub. I nearly fell down.

  It wasn’t affection. He was wiping off his face.

  Burnous across the saddle. Botas flapping against me. Back up and into the saddle.

  “Sorry, old son. We’ve got to.”

  And on we ran.

  The next time we stopped, his nostrils worked like bellows. The interiors were very pink. He shook his head up and down. Shook his entire body. Nearly pushed me aside before I could fill the burnous basin.

  He drank it all, then peed.

  I hadn’t needed to pee since we’d left Umir’s palace. And that was dangerous.

  I unfastened another bota. Sucked a third of it down my throat. Realized how badly I needed it.

  The sun was down, the night was warm, not hot, but our pace was what mattered under the sky, not the temperature.

  I rested my forehead head against the stud’s sweaty face. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  Trot. Walk. Lope. Over and over again. Trot. Walk. Lope. Julah was far away. The canyon father yet, and the broken stone formation that housed a broken sword.

  I watered him. I watered myself. Both of us needed more. But the moon was far gentler than the Southron sun. I urged him onward. Not far, not far, I said. Not so far, I lied.

  Sunrise. Heatrise.

  Gods above and below, my back was killing me. And when I finally peed, the blood in it was bright.

  He was winded. He labored. We had somehow wandered off the track. I couldn’t remember why or when.

  I reined in. Practically fell out of the saddle. Got down. Dug the basin. Emptied two botas. Kept some sips for me. He plunged his muzzle down as deeply as he could into the shallow hollow, sucking water. Under the circumstances, a pitiful amount.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, from a throat that felt dry to bleeding.

  He drank the basin dry. He swung his head into me as I sat upon the ground. I collapsed backward into the dirt, the rocks; the scrubby, stickery grass.

  “No more,” I told him. “Not until tomorrow.” I could barely move. “Tomorrow. For now, a short rest. Catch your breath. I’ll catch mine.”

  I woke when the stud moved. I had tied his halter rope around my wrist so I wouldn’t sleep too long. He was stretching to reach another hummock of grass. By the sun’s position, it was past time for us to go.

  Too long, too long, I thought. No time was ever enough.

  I climbed up into the saddle, swearing at the pain in my lower back. That punched kidney was mightily offended. I bit into my lip, settled down into the saddle, and told the stud it was time to go again.

  Once again, we ran.

  The choppiness of his gait roused me. I’d fallen asleep in the saddle. The halter’s lead-rope hung down to the ground. Just about the time I was coherent enough to understand, the stud stepped on the rope. It stopped him dead, and I nearly came off.

  He fought the rope. He didn’t realize that he was standing on it. Until he moved, it wouldn’t. I swung a leg over the saddle, let my weight follow it down, and ended up on my butt. I pounded a fist on his fetlock. “Move it. Move it.”

  Outraged, he lifted his hoof. I yanked the lead-rope from under it.

  No stopping now. No delay. We had to reach Beit al’Shahar. Had to reach the sword.

  “—sorry,” I gasped.

  I dug, I poured. The stud drank it up.

  Not enough. Not enough.

  And I realized, all of a sudden, that we were not upon the track that cut the Punja in two. We were entirely elsewhere, and I had no memory of going there.

  I grabbed the stirrup. Pulled myself mostly upright. Changed my grip from stirrup to saddle. Breathed hard, then stuffed my foot into the stirrup and hauled myself up. Butt in the saddle, reins in my hands, I sat very still. There were no words for the clenching, the cramping of my back.

  “Let’s go,” I said. Nothing more was in me.

  The stud’s gait ran ragged. I roused, realized he’d been carrying me without direction. Now he wanted direction. Now he needed it.

  I reined him in. Dragged my right leg across the saddle. Crossed his rump with a flopping foot. Tried to lower myself carefully. Instead, I fell.

  The reins were in my hand. The halter rope as well. Sudden tautness in leather, in rope, pierced the fog in my head. And I watched, in stupefaction, as the stud surrendered.

  He stood with all four legs spread. He tried to equalize the weight, to prop himself up. Instead, his knees gave twice. Snapped back into place. Then he canted forward, folded his forelegs, and awkwardly went down. The hind legs followed where the front legs led.

  The expulsion of breath was loud. The stud bobbed his head, then let the weight of bone take him. His muzzle went into soil and rock. He propped it there, blew dust from the soil. After a moment he heaved himself up partway, splayed front legs, then rolled onto his side.

  Gods gods gods.

  So little left in him.

  I peeled back his upper lip. Set the bota between cheek and teeth. Pressed it, squirting what liquid was left into his mouth. He did not protest this time.

  I lay on my belly. Swung an arm across his neck. Into the soil, I laughed for no reason I could think of. Small clouds of dust puffed up.

  In the stone, fallen down; in the ruined, fallen chimney, I knew what I must do.

  I knew, too, what I needed now to do.

  Two more fat botas. I drank a few swallows from one, dug a haphazard hollow, and emptied the last of the water into it. Removed halter, bridle, put the halter back on. Tied the long lead-rope so it wouldn’t trip him when he got up again. If he got up again.

  I knelt there beside him a moment longer. “Old son,” I rasped. “Good old son. I could never ask for better.”

  I pushed myself to my feet. Wavered a moment. Then turned my back on him and began to walk.

  From behind me came a faint nicker. I shut my eyes and walked on, praying—yes, praying—that someone would find him. Or that he would find someone.

  I ran, I walked, I jogged. Tripped a few times. Fell down once and got cactus spines in my left forearm. Jerked them out one at a time, cursing between my teeth, and then went on. It crossed my mind to search for the track, but to do so would use time I didn’t have. I knew my directions; I was heading the right way. I just had to keep going.

  An inner sense told me I was close. I knew I was when I came across the sandy riverbed that never ran with water. It was choked with stones, sand, and flat, chunky boulders, hedg
ed by scrub trees. Del and I had never been exactly here, but it was the same riverbed. If I crossed it and held to my direction, I should come across the regular track we took into Julah.

  Which was, as I kept going, exactly what happened. I ended up between the high bluff with its lean-to, and the mouth of Mehmet’s canyon. I stopped long enough to drain the last of my water from the bota. Then I went on, jogging awkwardly again. Because the track was worn, the footing was better. I still managed to trip now and again because I was just so tired, but the going was easier.

  Close enough to run, I ran. Mehmet’s aketni all came out to greet me, but I gave them a ragged wave and kept going. I passed out of Mehmet’s canyon, found the narrow mouth of ours, ran and ran.

  High overhead, an eagle spiraled. I aimed for the natural pool that Alric and I had since improved, splashed through the shallows to the deeper portion, and fell face down in it.

  So cool…so wet…

  I scooped up several handfuls and drank, then splashed back out of the pool and ran again. This time to Alric’s. As usual, their children were running around everywhere. I was relieved to see they were all right.

  Lena met me in the doorway. She was so startled her mouth fell open. “Gods!”

  “Is Alric alive? Are you all right?”

  Tears ran down her face. Through her hands she said, “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! They just took her!”

  I caught her shoulders to stop her trembling. “I know. Lena, I know. I’ve seen her. Sula’s all right. What about Alric?”

  “Tiger?” It came from the other room, their modest bedroom. “Is that you?”

  I slid by Lena and went to the bedroom opening, pulling the curtain aside. Alric was struggling to get out of bed. His face was in the first bloom of ugly bruising, and it appeared Lena had stitched closed a long cut on one cheek. His left arm was splinted. The right leg was wrapped.

  “Stay in bed,” I advised. “And Sula’s all right. She’s all right. I’ve seen her. Are you all right, you and Lena?”

  Alric gave up the fight to stand. He sat on the edge of the bed, left arm and splint cradled against his chest. “Yes. No harm done beyond this, as you see. But Sula—you’re sure she’s all right?”

  “She’s at Umir’s. I saw her…” I paused. “Yesterday, I think it was.” Lena was at my elbow, offering a mug of water. I thanked her, drank it dry in a few gulps, gave the mug back.

  When I looked at Alric again, his face was ravaged. “They just rode in here and took her. Tiger—”

  I cut him off with a gesture. “I know. I know. Don’t blame yourself. Either of you.” I paused to catch my breath. “There’s something I need to do, and then I must go. But I’ll need a horse. And there are no guarantees you’ll get it back.”

  “Where’s the stud?” Alric asked.

  I sighed deeply, feeling a hard twinge of regret. Of grief. “Somewhere between here and there. I’m not sure. He couldn’t go on. I had to leave him.”

  Alric’s mouth dropped open as he stared. Then he closed it. “Gods, Tiger. What’s happened? Is Del next door?”

  “Del is at Umir’s, with Sula.”

  He was astonished. “Umir’s!”

  “It’s a long story,” I told him. “There’s something I must do, something important, and then I’ll need the horse. I have to go back to Umir’s.”

  “You’re exhausted!” Lena protested.

  “No choice. The horse?”

  “Yes! Yes! Of course,” Alric said. “You’ll take mine. He’ll be ready to go when you are.”

  I nodded, blowing breath out between pursed lips. “All right. I’ll be back for him…well, when I’m back.”

  Lena put out her hands. “Give me those botas. I’ll fill them. I’ll pack some food. And a clean burnous—”

  “Lena. Stop. Thank you, but…stop. The water will do.” I pulled the empty botas off and handed them to her. “I must go.”

  This time neither protested. Neither asked questions. But I saw both reflected in their faces, in their eyes. I nodded in thanks, in acknowledgment, and walked out of their house.

  Chapter 41

  TWO YEARS. Two years since I had been up to the fallen chimney. Then, I poured all the magic within me into the sword. And then broke the blade, banishing power I’d never wanted. Now, as I ducked to enter the tunnel-like opening made of tumbled rocks, I recalled that here, too, Neesha had told me I was his father.

  The tunnel was not a proper one. As the chimney crumbled, large slabs had fallen in such a way as to create something very like a tunnel. The interior chamber that had been a circle collapsed partway as well. Originally it had been open to the sun; rounded, striated walls climbing to the sky. Now there were fissures and cracks in tumbled slabs fallen in a heap. These allowed sunlight, but not much, and in no kind of pattern that was easy to recognize as what the chimney once had been.

  I walked carefully and slowly through the tunnel, ducking my head. I hated this cavern-like formation. Hated creeping below fallen slabs. Such close confines always made me nervous.

  By the time I reached the huge boulder blocking almost completely the way into the chamber, I was panting. Exhaustion was sapping my strength, my balance, my endurance. I needed sleep badly. But no time, no time at all, for human frailties. For mine.

  Between the huge slab and the broken wall lay a narrow chute from uneven stone floor to what passed for a ceiling. I examined the chute with eyes and hands. Neesha had gotten through with only a few strips of skin left behind; the first time, I simply couldn’t fit. The last time, I’d brought a pot of grease to ease my way. I’d left more skin than Neesha, but the grease had done its work. Unfortunately, I had no grease with me now, and I had no idea if I had gained or lost weight over two years.

  After a lengthy inspection of the chute, I finally took off the harness with its empty sheath, unlaced sandals and kicked them away. Sideways, I slid an arm through to lead the rest of me. I followed up to my shoulder. It was flesh and bone I risked now. Rather than take and hold a deep breath, which expanded the rib cage, I blew out all my air. The trick was to get deeply enough into the passage that I could begin shallow breathing. But before then, I would not fit.

  I inserted myself into the chute and began to work myself through. I found it easier in the narrowest areas to scrape through as quickly as I could. But it meant I left more skin, began to bleed. I felt horribly compressed.

  Before me lay shafts of light. The remains of the circle were just there. I blew out breath again, steeled myself, forced my way through. Momentum dropped me to hands and knees in pale sand. Chest and back stung from bad scrapes, but as I started to move, pain in the kidney area flared so excruciatingly that it dropped me face-first into the sand.

  The picture in my head was what Wahzir had told me. The organ rots inside you. It poisons the blood. The kidney rotting, spreading poison throughout my body.

  “Not now,” I murmured. “I have things to do…” Gods, it hurt, and so badly the sweat rolled off my body.

  I lay there with teeth gritted, fists clenched, breath hissing into and out of my mouth. When at first the pain began to diminish I didn’t believe it. But slowly it lessened, degree by degree. Sweat dried. Breathing steadied. I could lie there no longer.

  I eased myself up to a sitting position. About a foot away lay the blade portion of a broken sword. Close by lay the other half: hilt, pommel, grip, and approximately a foot of amputated blade.

  Samiel.

  Not far from my broken sword lay Del’s Boreal. Named blades. Blooding-blades, keyed by us in the blood of a living being. I had come home from Skandi brimming over with magic foreign to my bones. Foreign to my blood. I, a mage, annealed and tempered atop a towering spire of stone on ioSkandi, island of the mad.

  No time. I needed this done.

  I reached, took up the blade half. Moved a little farther and took up the other. It was dead in my hands; sundered, stilled, damned.

  Sand and blood caked my ches
t. For a moment I held both halves in one hand, then scraped a swath of blood from my skin. I painted both halves with it. I closed my right hand over the grip. The left over the blade. I thrust both into the air, pointing up, out of the chimney, pointing to sun and sky.

  Come, I told it. Come home.

  The interior of the chimney exploded with light. Bursts like shooting stars raced up, raced down, spun themselves around the interior. A whirlwind of light painted the chamber, spinning, spinning, spinning. It never had disappeared. Never dissipated. It would not desert its host. But it was wild. It was angry.

  Come home, I said. You are needed.

  A whistling began. Each time a burst of shooting star was born, sound accompanied it. A high, keening sound, loud with its whelping, trailing off as the burst grew a tail and shot through the air—up, down, around. A deep throb came into the chamber, trembling beneath my legs. I reared up, braced myself on knees and calves, let my head fall back as I thrust the two broken halves even higher into the air. Up to the sky. Up to the stone-blocked sun.

  The chamber was wreathed in light of a hundred colors. The whirlwind spun, humming. The newborn bursts streaked in numberless directions, shrieked, fell into the whirlwind, added meager light to the whirlwind glorious in power, in the spinning of its children. It climbed the broken walls of the chamber, spun high, higher than my head, higher than Samiel, whirled up the chimney. The keening of its song, the humming of its power, the deep throb under my body grew in volume. And the whirlwind spun down. It dipped, touched, pull sand into itself. Glittering crystal sand. I tasted its grit in my mouth. Heard the added song, the almost-painful throb.

  It had not been this way when I broke it. Maybe because I had killed the sword by forcing everything into it.

  Bursts exploded into existence, tiny, brilliant shooting stars, alive with light, with sound. Each reveled in freedom briefly, then fell into the whirlwind to add one more blazing streak.

 

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