The Golden Sword

by Janet Morris

Chayin laughed, humorless, and took her by the tether.

  “I know what I am going to do with you. I am going to have your vocal cords cut. Then I will give you to Jaheil.”

  Celendra did not know Jaheil. But she knew Chayin, and she quaked. She laid her head upon his arm. She looked soulfully into his eyes. Her pointed breasts pushed against him. She whispered something, placating.

  “Perhaps I will change my mind,” he allowed, “about the vocal cords. But I will doubtless”—he pushed her from him, jerking her up short by the leash—“give you to Jaheil.”

  “What do you find so offensive about her, Chayin?” I asked, as we left the couch chamber and its bound occupant and headed for the common room. I was curious. To me, Calendra is outstandingly lovely, with her velvet skin and her great breasts like pointed pillows and her wide, curving hips. I am small, slim-hipped, insignificant compared to her. I know men find grace in me, in my long delicate legs and my very fineness, but I have always secretly wished to be voluptuous, statuesque. It is truly said that a woman cannot assess her own beauty.

  “Tell me,” I insisted. “I think she is beautiful. I want to know.”

  “Do you, Sereth,” asked Chayin, “think she is beautiful?”

  “I did, for a long time,” he said quietly. “I had a sickness for her, once. It ate away at me, and when it was done, I no longer found her so.”

  “She is too much a tiask to suit me,” said Chayin. “There is too much man in her ... something. I do not know.” He frowned. “I just do not want her.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” said Sereth, still softer. “When I first had her, such was not her nature. Perhaps it was I who made her as she is. Perhaps just what came to be between us ...” Unconsciously he slowed his stride, remembering. “Before Tyith, in the very beginning, she was quite different.” I saw Celendra’s face. I cannot describe it. She stared at her feet, bare, upon the gol.

  And I, too, stared at my booted feet in the silence that came over us all. Beneath them the gol floor became steps, and we descended to the common room. I wanted to go to Sereth, to beg an enth alone, but I did not.

  I have often wished I had done so, lying here, my thoughts upon him. The future cloaks the past, experience alters it. And memories, I have come to know, are not the permanent possessions I once thought them.

  We came out into the common room, filled with shackled men and women. Sereth, in the doorway, stopped, his eyes searching tricks and treachery. Four jiasks moved through the prisoners, kneeling here, stooping there, checking.

  In Astria we have no divisions to our common room, as they do in Arlet. A man knows the girl’s price by the color of the armlet she wears. All the furniture, couches and pillows, had been pushed to the sides of the great white-and-silver hall. The bodies were so thick upon the floor that the inset designs of colored gol could not be seen.

  Sereth called a jiask to him.

  “The wellwomen?” the Ebvrasea asked.

  “We are collecting the last of them now.”

  Sereth nodded. “Separate them into groups—Slayers, wellwomen, customers, Celendra’s hirelings. Where are those who were bound when you found them?”

  The jiask led us among the throng to a small group huddled unbound near the door to the drug chamber. They looked up at us, fearful. Some were bleeding, most were bruised. In that group were well-women, servers, fitters. My name came from their lips; hands were extended to me. I stepped back. I was chaldless, woman of an outlaw. All my name held for them was a similar fate. These were those whom Celendra’s people felt need to restrain, lest revolution come upon Well Astria. If it had not been for the diversion they provided, things might have gone another way. I searched the faces again. Ges was not among them.

  I realized, as I stared around me, that I had seen not a single corpse. Though Sereth was outlaw, he was still a Slayer, and doubtless one of the shrewdest of them. Had Astria been taken, truly, by Parsets, these floors would be covered with dead.

  Sereth crouched down among them. As one, they stared at him.

  “You, all of you,” he said, barely whispering, “I will offer a choice. You must consider before you answer. This is not what you think. Estri will never rule again in Astria. Day-Keepers will come here and look for guilt and complicity among you, for they will never believe we did this alone.” He looked around him, licking his lips.

  “I can bind you and put you with the others. I can leave you free, and you may do as you will. We will be here one day only, and when we leave, Day-Keepers will come. There will be a new WellKeepress, for we will take Celendra with us. Even now, from the suspicions of Celendra’s people, your chalds may be in danger. Your help would be welcome, but we cannot take any of you when we leave.” He leaned back upon his heels. Wiraal drifted away from us toward his jiasks.

  “I raised hands to a Slayer,” said one man in a low tone. “I have nothing more to lose.” Sereth’s Mouth tightened, understanding.

  “What was your skill?” the Ebvrasea asked. I saw Wiraal counting heads, and something cupped in his hands—keys to the pleasure chains of Astria.

  “I was a fitter, but not for women. Once I worked for the hostel. I made an enemy there. When Celendra demanded an armsman, my enemy saw to it I was chosen.”

  “Have you any of your work?”

  The man raised his head, staring.

  “In that pile, perchance,” he said, pointing to the knee-high jumble, a man’s length across, of confiscated arms.

  “Go find some. I would see it.” The man rose and threaded his way hurriedly among the prisoners.

  Sereth turned back to those whose disposition so perplexed him.

  In the end, we bound all but ten, who felt themselves already marked. They troubled Sereth greatly, these men, for eight were of couples, and none, he felt suited to run with his own renegades. He advised them to elect a leader, take what they wanted of Astria’s treasures, and get themselves a good start upon their new lives.

  When he stood up finally, his face was tight and drawn.

  “There is more of this,” he muttered as he turned from them. I pressed myself against him. He patted me absently, then headed toward the far side of the common room, where Wiraal had grouped the Slayers. I would have let him go, but Lalen shoved me after him.

  Halfway to them, the armsman stopped him, with a handful of his craft.

  Sereth took from him, piece by piece, his work. He tucked in his chin and regarded the weaponer under his hair, as he sometimes does when thinking.

  He threw me a stra straight-blade. The weight was perfectly balanced, the hilt snuggled against my hand. I smiled at the man, and handed it back. Sereth’s eyes took mine. I could not believe he would consult me in such a matter. His eyes laughing, he handed me a short blade. I examined it, passed it to Lalen, who grunted approvingly.

  “Get yourself a threx, and provisions. Pack the tools of your craft. Where you go, you cannot buy what you do not have.”

  The man grinned, turned, and hurried from the chamber, stopping only long enough to deposit his samples upon the pile.

  “Sereth” Chayin, standing with Celendra next to Wiraal. Lalen had to bodily move me. As I watched the weaponer, it had come to me that he would never serve us; that neither Sereth nor I would ever stand again upon Mount Opir.

  “What is wrong with you?” demanded Lalen. I could not speak. I trembled, silent. Then I wheeled and ran through the prisoners, oblivious, stepping upon them.

  “Sereth! Sereth!” I grabbed his arm, pulling upon it, dragging him away from Chayin and Wiraal and the Slayers above whom they stood. “Sereth! Hold me, oh, hold me!” And he did.

  “We have got to go! Go now. Please. I cannot do it,” I begged through frozen lips.

  “Quiet, little one. He pressed my head against his chest, his lips close to my ear. “It will be over soon. You are doing fine.”

  “Please, now. Chayin. Ask Chayin.”

  “Chayin, come here. Do you know what is wrong
with her?”

  And the membranes closed over Chayin’s eyes, and stayed closed.

  “Doubtless,” he said quietly, “she has seen it, that which her mind kept from her, which she would not admit she saw.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She wants you to leave, I imagine?”

  Sereth nodded. His body stiffened against me.

  “Go if you would. If you take her, you will not get far. If you leave her, to do what the time demands of her, you might make it. I would like to say I could return her to you, but I do not find such in the sort.” He spread his hands. “It is a decision the two of you must make.” And he turned his back to us and walked back to Wiraal.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “Why must we go?” And I knew when he said it he had his decision already made.

  I pressed myself tighter against him, as if I could somehow stop the moment’s passing.

  “You will not leave, no matter .what I say.” I despaired. He kissed my temple.

  “That is right, I will not. But it might serve me, to know what you see. Perhaps we can avoid it.”

  “We cannot avoid it. We are it!”

  “You speak riddles, woman.” He shook me, holding me away from him. My eyes had no tears in them. I was incapable of tears. I raised my hand and put my fingers upon the deep scar he bore, tracing its length. I fought for strength, and that strong place within me gave what it could.

  “No woman,” I said to him, “is worth what my price will come to be. When you have said to me what you have said, you must listen to the same. There will come a moment when you might save yourself. You would be a fool not to do so. I will think no less highly of you.” And I bit my lip, until salt blood ran upon my tongue.

  He tossed his head, bewildered, and smiled a strained smile. “We will discuss it further later,” he said, and turned me firmly toward the captured Slayers.

  I saw upon Chayin’s face what was surely compassion, as we joined them. We were not so far from him that his desert-sharp ears could not hear. He knew, as I, that Sereth and I would not have time, later, to discuss anything. He had known since Frullo jer. I stood between them, Chayin and Sereth, and the cahndor’s hand found mine and gripped it tightly. Lalen held Celendra’s leash, abstracted, staring at the captives.

  “They would speak with you,” said Wiraal, gesturing to what was now close to thirty men, chained together by the neck, their hands bound behind in crell chains. “In Nemar, we would shut their mouths, permanently, for asking.”

  He stood spread-legged before them, his hands upon his lips. The torchlight sparked from the Shaper’s cloak he wore. Naked but for their chalds, they craned their necks, to see him—the Ebvrasea, past-Seven of Arlet, chaldless, outlaw. Most of them were unscathed. Three bore flesh wounds.

  “Who speaks for you?” He asked his question to one he had singled out among the prisoners, one who bore a diagonal wound, bloody, across his chest. His chains rustled softly as he struggled to his knees. The men upon either side of him moved closer, to ease the tightened links upon their own necks.

  “Seven—” the man said.

  “Do not call me that.”

  “What are you going to do with us? Surely you would not see us crells?”

  “How did you come by that wound?” Sereth asked, deathly soft.

  “They came at us in the passage. We had no choice.”

  “You will doubtless come to regret it. Were you not instructed specifically against crossing swords with Parsets?” I wondered if Sereth’s senses had left him. Did he think himself again Seven of Arlet?

  “There is the life-right,” the man, growled.

  “Yes,” said Sereth, “there is the life-right. I made that choice myself.”

  The man squinted at him, his eyes searching. “They are like spirits. I have never seen men so fast.”

  “They use uris,” Sereth reminded him. “And in quantities that would destroy you or me in a few passes’ time. Their constitutions are quite different.” His voice was softened. “I see no disgrace in what you did, not in taking up your weapons, nor even putting them down. None but another Parset could stand against a Nemarsi. Perhaps,” he added softly, “that is why Slayers are forbidden to fight them. “

  “You would not see us crells. Not your ...”

  “No,” said Sereth, “I did not say I would. I will leave you to your brothers’ judgment. May it fall fairly upon you.” And he turned his back upon the kneeling man.

  “Chayin, can you not take some of this load?” Sereth said, running his hand over his eyes wearily. It seemed to me that the torchlight dimmed.

  “I will try. They all look alike to me.” Celendra, beside him, surveyed the ruins of her life. I was sure now: sun’s rising lit the translucent white gol from without, causing it to seem that the torchlight dimmed. I touched Sereth’s hand at my waist.

  “The sign for Feast of Conception,” I reminded him.

  He demanded of Celendra the plaque’s location, and sent Wiraal to get it. Upon Feast of Conception, the Well is closed to business, and all present the previous evening are feted, at the Well’s expense. It is considered a bad omen to admit any others, although once Celendra had broken that rule for me. And indeed, ill luck had attended us.

  When Wiraal returned with it, he went and placed the oblong plaque upon its hook on the great Well door. Until dawn, Amarsa second seventh, one full day from now, the Well tower was effectively sealed off from the rest of Astria. By that time, Jaheil’s appreis would have blossomed upon the plain. Sereth and I stood in the great entrance hall, and through the door he caught his first glimpse of the wonder of the Inner Well, ablaze with light refracted from the prismatic towers. Then Wiraal leaned his weight against the great door, closed it.

  “This is the strangest fight,” he said, resting back against the bronze door, “that I have ever fought. Put a sign on the door, indeed!” His perplexity was obvious.

  “Post a guard here, if it pleases you,” said Sereth.

  “I will. After I find that crell. It is a pity we cannot take them all. When do you think the Slayers will arrive?”

  “It is seventy neras from here to there. The rider from Celendra has not yet arrived, will not before midday. If they have their orders, they might move within an enth. There would be the question of how fast to drive the threx—if they would fight Parsets mounted, they could not spend them so freely as the messenger might. It is my guess that they will not have their orders. Rin diet Tron is not a man given to precipitous action.”

  “When do you anticipate them?” Wiraal pressed.

  “Anytime between first bell and sun’s rising tomorrow.” First bell to sun’s rising is a spread of about seven enths—half the short-summer night.

  “If they spare their threx. If they do not have their orders. What if they do not spare the threx? What if they do have their orders?’

  “Then perhaps the Feast of Conception we have called will save us. Jaheil, remember, arrives at sun’s rising, if not before.”

  “And Hael, I wager, close behind him,” Wiraal said dryly.

  “And upon Hael’s heels, Idrer and my men. And do not forget the tiasks—Pijaes and ... what is her name?” Sereth asked me.

  “Nineth,” I supplied.

  “No one,” quipped Wiraal, “could forget Nineth. This whole escapade begins,” he admitted, eyes dancing, “to make a sort of demented sense.” And he chuckled, still leaning against the door.

  “I do not relish it, but we must go back to the common room,” Sereth said, and Wiraal nodded, pleased to be included in Sereth’s “we.”

  “Tell me of it in the crawlways, Wiraal,” I teased him. “How did you lose your cloak?”

  “As Chayin projected, we found fourteen of Celendra’s hirelings, sneaking upon you. Even did they have a device with them, some star thing, that they planned to use upon the stra to eat it away. I tried it upon a good blade. It works.”

  “Where is this device?” Sereth asked.

  “I thre
w it in the sewers. That is where we caught them, just coming down the stairs from the couching places. As the cahndor said we would. And that is where I lost my cloak. I needed a new one, in truth.”

  “Where are the fourteen hirelings?” Sereth asked delicately.

  “Where goeth the spirit, when no longer en-fleshed?” Wiraal queried him.

  “I am sure I do not know,” answered Sereth sharply. “I would see the bodies.” And I knew he sought Slayers among them.

  They were just beyond the common room, in an alcove that was ringed with tas-covered benches, piled upon the floor. I had been wrong when I assumed that none had died this night. There were not fourteen, but many more dead. Among them was Ges, one of six who had died at the hands of Celendra’s men.

  I leaned down and touched the calm, cool face of Ges, with whom I had grown to adulthood.

  As I straightened up, I heard seventh bell tolling. I could not see it, for upon the ground floor of Astria there are no windows, but outside, Astria was rising, all unknowing. Soon the musicians would tune their instruments, the physicians tend their sick, the students of Well Arts attend their lessons, all unaware that the Ebvrasea and the chosen son of Tar-Kesa held the central tower. When they did learn, they would exclaim in wonder that twenty-five men and one woman had done such a thing, had taken Well Astria, at such a paltry cost. The death toll steadied and held at twenty-six. Twenty-six were lost in the downfall of Celendra, and more than six hundred taken captive, on that evening, second fifth of Amarsa.

  One dead for each of our number. The coincidence consumed me, wrapping me in its clammy, morbid arms as I stood against the common-room wall, where Sereth had bade me await him. Lalen lounged by my side, ever present, and in his hand he held Celendra’s tether. I was careful to keep him between us.

  Wiraal had found and claimed his wellwoman immediately upon our return here, and in doing so set a precedent. There would be a distinct widening of the gene pool in Nemar. I, who had adjudged twice a thousand applicants as Well-Keepress of Astria, watched the Nemarsi at their choosing, and I saw that they chose with discrimination, with shrewdness, with that innate wisdom of a man’s eyes upon many women.