by Lou Hoffmann
After hearing Han’s counsel and thinking about how important the Blade was, Lucky felt a little ashamed that he’d left Ciarrah in his room that morning. He went back to fetch her, then headed immediately away from the hold and its village, his feet taking him as if by instinct to a place of many sacred oaths, the Oakridge. He hadn’t visited the place since he’d returned from Earth to Ethra, but he’d heard tales of it, and knew he’d been there before. He’d received his cardinal name there, so the story went, on the day he was born. It had been his father, Lohen Chiell, who had given it to him. Mannatha. In the throes of a life-or-death magical battle in Isa’s cold tower, it turned out the name was quite a gift, and now, the same man had given him Ciarrah.
Lucky climbed the trail to the summit, a short but strenuous and tricky path of mud and stone. At the top he held the knife in two hands as he stood for a few minutes, silent and watchful on the ridge near the oak it was named for. His toes at the very edge of the cliff, he caught the glint and sparkle of granite answering the sun in the lower edges of his vision. After a short time, which he spent contemplating the green-gold fields below and the blue horizon in the distance, he breathed deep and sighed. For the first time since coming home, he felt true peace come over him. He thought perhaps the place itself had magic, and if that was true, he wished it was enough to solve everything. But in this world, at this time, darker things were needed too.
For instance, enchanted knives of stone.
“Ciarrah,” he said, holding the Black Blade out before him in the sunlight.
The answer came in Luccan’s mind. “Child of Lohen, do you have immediate need?”
Lucky weighed his answer. One part of him—the part that remembered how afraid he’d been, waking from his gruesome dreams—wanted to cry out, Yes, protect me! Ultimately, though, he decided that wasn’t the kind of “immediate” Ciarrah was referring to. He said, “No. But I want us to complete the bond you spoke of before. So that our magic can unite. Will you do it?”
The Blade responded instantly with a quiet hum and low light, and then it answered. “Yes, you are to become the new light-wielder, as it should be, for you are the son of Lohen Chiell. Do you know the agreements?”
Agreements, Lucky thought. Good word. “I don’t think so,” he said aloud, though truthfully he was dead sure he didn’t.
“They are simple. We must agree to believe in one another, not to partake of evil, and to be honest. You then agree not to let others use or hold me, though exception can be made in true need. And you agree not to tell others my name unless they share your father’s bloodline. I then agree to do as you ask at all times if I am capable.”
Lucky answered, “Okay, that all sounds reasonable.” And in retrospect he felt relieved Han shared his father’s bloodline. He’d have to tell him to keep mum about Ciarrah’s identity. He was also glad he hadn’t let the name slip last night at the table, when the story of the quest was being dragged out of him and Han with ten gazillion questions.
“Good” came Ciarrah’s reply. “Then, for your part do you so agree?”
“I do agree, Ciarrah, but may I request one addition to our agreement?”
“An addition? Bold child. The agreement has remained the same through the centuries.”
“Well, still. It’s not a big thing, C—can I call you C?”
“Continue.”
“All I want is to ask you to also agree to help me understand you. I mean, I have no one to teach me what you can do, or how to get you to do what I need.”
“Ah. That is not unwise. I do so agree, then, to do as you ask of me at all times if I am able, and to help you understand what I can do and how to use my magic.”
“Great! Are we done, then?”
Lucky could have sworn Ciarrah was laughing at him, so he guessed that no, something more must be done.
“No, Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Suth Chiell and light-wielder to be, the bond is not complete yet.”
“Spill,” Lucky said, feeling a little tired of the mystery game. “What do we do?”
“We must seal the bond with blood, of course.”
Damn, Lucky thought. More pain. “My blood, I take you to mean. Since you don’t have any.”
“Oh no, Child. There you are wrong. My blood is my light. And yes, I, like all others have a limited supply. Be careful how you spend it. But for now, all we need is a little of yours and little of mine. Cut with the tip of my blade over your heart, please.”
The forging of the bond between him and Ciarrah proved to be unlike anything Lucky had ever experienced. The instant the Blade pierced his skin, he felt the Blade begin to draw out… whatever it was that kept a person alive. Spirit? The Force? Lucky didn’t know what to call it, but he felt its loss. It weakened him—even though only a few drops of blood coursed down the blade to stain Lucky’s fingers.
He fell to his knees.
Then, his vision misted with the sharp violet of Ciarrah’s light, and a burn started, heat without pain, suffusing first his head and then progressing until his entire body felt immolated and brilliant. Strength returned with the heat, and Lucky stood. The Key of Behliseth began to sound a pitch that seemed to Lucky to harmonize with the frequency of the Blade’s light. In that moment, Lucky felt he could have conquered worlds with nothing more than breath.
Then as the burn ebbed and Lucky’s vision returned to normal, Ciarrah spoke once more in his mind. “It is done. Luccan, son of Lohen, you are blade-keeper, light-wielder. I did not expect the Key of Behliseth, but now it is part of our bond. I’m not sure of its effect. It may prove best if you hold the Key when we work together.”
“I always have the Key with me. I keep it on a chain around my neck. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—I didn’t know it would make a difference.”
Ciarrah’s voice changed for a moment—lost its mystical, distant quality and sounded oddly similar to Aunt Rose. “You couldn’t have known, child, and it seems perhaps a good thing. I confess I’m flustered. Change does not come naturally to one whose life is set within stone! Who knows what will happen? But surely all will be revealed in time.” Apparently she was done with her mundane musing then, because her voice went mysterious and her language formal again. “Now and until our bond is sundered, light-wielder, hold true to your oath, for the sake of all that is good in the world, and I will hold fast also to mine.”
Lucky had no idea if there was a proper response when something—someone… some soul? Okay, soul—when some soul who lived in stone was flustered but swore to serve you, so he just said, “Um, yeah. Thank you.”
He thought she might have laughed at him, again. Right. That’s all I need—a fabulous magical talisman to laugh at me. Like there aren’t enough humans who do that already.
As Lucky started the descent from the ridge and headed back to the Sisterhold, he reflected on how formidable he had felt during the bonding when Ciarrah flooded him with her power. It had been nothing short of fabulous.
No. It was more than that! Amazing… astonishing… phenomenal…. Okay fine, I don’t have a word for it.
But as great… or whatever… as it was, he had no wish to ever experience it again. He doubted any human body could withstand power so pure… or whatever… for long. Apparently obsidian was a very strong substance. Lucky was glad to know Ciarrah’s strength, glad she’d permitted their bond and agreed to be his helper, or maybe partner, but he was also relieved to know that her power remained bound in the stone blade, to be released only with purpose.
Safer that way all around.
LONG TRESTLES had been set up in the green, some set with chairs for eating, some loaded with heaped platters of meats, breads, and fruits, plates of sweets of every kind, bowls with salads, and steaming casseroles. Lucky smiled as he noticed baskets filled with potato chips, which had been unknown in Ethra before Lucky had told Cook about them one night when he wanted a snack.
The crowd was growing rapidly, but the noise they made seemed upbeat enough, so as Luck
y stood observing at the shaded edge of the green, he didn’t worry much about having to address them. He did wish Thurlock was there. Thurlock’s wizardry included being able to guide Lucky through these situations—one of his most awesome powers, in Lucky’s opinion. But this speech shouldn’t be too hard. He’d keep it short and simple. Rose had made it sound casual, and probably what the people really wanted to get to was the food.
Lucky realized suddenly that he still held Ciarrah in his hand. It seemed oddly comfortable there, but he supposed people might get the wrong idea if he gestured with it, or something. I need some kind of sheath for this, he thought, but of course that was for another time. For lack of a better idea, before he started across the green to the space behind the head table where Rose and Lem waited, he stuck Ciarrah in the wound leg-straps of his right sandal. On an afterthought, he muttered an apology, in case an open carry in the sandal was beneath Ciarrah’s dignity.
He moved awkwardly in the clothes Rose had suggested for the event: a garment he continued to call a kilt because he kept forgetting the Karrish name for it, a shirt, and a tunic—all of which he supposed met the Sunlands definition of “dress casual” attire. Even the sandals were new and stiff, and damned uncomfortable, especially with a stone knife scraping his calf with each step.
The crowd gathered as he came near, although only a few called out greetings. Even though he thought his speech would be easy, he first found his mouth too dry to speak. And then, to make matters worse, as he looked out into the crowd, he saw that not all the faces wore smiles. Something Thurlock had told him not long after he’d arrived in Ethra after his three-year exile came to mind.
“Luccan, it’s important for you to understand that not everyone here in Ethra, or in the Sunlands, or even within the Sisterhold, is glad you’ve come home.”
He felt the truth of those words acutely, and it left him tongue-tied. But then, Rose stepped up beside him on his right, and from behind him he heard Lem’s “ye’ll be fine, lad,” and he felt a little surge of confidence. And close to the front lines of the crowd, Han’s friend Tennehk caught his eye, smiled, and winked. Even though he’d only met the man the previous evening, it felt like friendly reassurance. Lucky breathed more easily, and words came to mind.
He raised his voice to a volume that would carry. “Thank you all for coming to help me celebrate my homecoming—my second one in less than a year. I promise not to make a habit of them unless you want me to because the parties are awesome.”
Puzzled looks greeted him.
“Oh, yeah. Awesome, that’s like really cool… I mean very good…. Well, you know what I mean. Anyway. I’m glad to be here.”
Someone in the back of the crowd—Lucky couldn’t see who—shouted, “Well, where have you been?”
Before Lucky could think of an answer that would work, someone else asked, “Was your mother with you? I don’t suppose you have any news of our good Lady Grace, now would you?”
It sounded sarcastic and maybe like an accusation. Lucky’s heart plummeted, and he found himself thinking, Where are the wizards when you need them?
Lem’s hand landed on his shoulder and Rose stepped up to speak. “Please, folks,” she said. “Let’s reserve today for celebrating. Eat, drink, enjoy the sunshine. Luccan only arrived last night. We hope to answer your questions in due time, but much needs sorting out, and he has no knowledge of Lil—”
While she was speaking, a dozen or so rough-looking men and women had moved forward from the back of the crowd and now made a semicircle around Lucky. One of the women interrupted Rose. “Well, that’s jolly, but there’s some of us as thinks this boy is too much his father’s son. Lohen Chiell never come to no good, and we be thinkin’ his boy’s no different. Tell us the truth, boy! What did you do to your poor mother?”
Three soldiers stepped up on Lucky’s left, and Lem stepped forward to shield him and Rose. “That’s enough,” Lem said. “Leave before you get yourselves hurt.”
They didn’t obey.
The woman who had spoken before shouted, “Look, he’s got that evil Black Blade strapped to his leg. I knew it! I knew he was no good!”
They attacked! People who had stood in the crowd seeming perfectly friendly before joined in, rushing Lem’s soldiers, knocking them to the ground. One man pulled a mean-looking knife and came at Lem. Two men bulldozed Rose and dragged her back away from Lucky—scary, because moving Rose when she didn’t want to go was no easy task. After that Lucky saw nothing else he could make sense of. People swarmed over him—too many faces to know who, too many shouted curses to understand the words.
He fell to the ground, thinking Han! as loudly as he could and trying to shake his hands loose from someone’s iron grip. If I can reach the Key! And Ciarrah… but no, I can’t use Ciarrah against my own people! Can I…? But the question was moot because his hands and legs were held fast, and he couldn’t do anything at all but look up into a throng of angry faces and wonder why.
Someone kicked his head. Hands clawed at his clothing and he felt the Key’s chain break; an instant later he saw it land in the trampled grass, the chain puddling over it. Something, maybe fear of losing the Key, strengthened him, and he wrenched one hand free long enough to make a grab for it. He clenched his fist over it, but he had no time do more than be sure he had a good, strong hold on it before the world skewed in his vision. For a moment the events around him seemed like a movie he watched on a distant outdoor screen. Tennehk was in it. The man he’d thought friendly and easygoing showed an entirely different but equally loyal side, twisting arms, throwing Lucky’s attackers to the ground—even the ones far bigger than Tennehk—and lastly punching the most stubborn man in the face really hard. It crossed Lucky’s mind that this was the moment when the audience cheers, but the thought quickly passed.
Someone tore Ciarrah from his sandal strap. He knew that because he felt her absence. His vision pinholed, but the last thing he saw before it all went black both comforted and scared him. Ciarrah flared star-bright for an instant, and in the same time her piercing song shot through the raucous noise of the brawl. The woman who’d taken her yelped and her fist jerked open. The smell of burning flesh met Lucky’s nostrils and he saw Ciarrah wheeling toward the clouds overhead. He just had time to wonder if she’d ever fall to the ground again before his mind tumbled into the dark silence of unconsciousness.
Chapter Six: Something Touches Him Dark and Evil
HAN CLENCHED his lips shut tight to prevent the very worst of the nasty vocabulary he’d learned during his year in Earth from slipping past them. After he had it managed, he took a deep breath and said much more mildly than even he expected, “Behl’s teeth! They attacked Luccan on the green? Move out of my way, Tennehk. He’s hurt. I’m going down to see him.” He tore the drain tube from his wound, wrapped it with one of the cloths people had been using to bathe his head whenever his fever spiked, and stood up from the bed. Then he stopped to consider, realizing he wore only a loose nightshirt. Not to be daunted, he told Tennehk—who’d just delivered the bad news—“Give me your khalta.”
Tennehk looked down at the kilt-like garment he wore, and then looked back up. Either confused or shocked—or maybe both—he said, “What?”
“Come on, Tennehk!”
“Han, first of all, Tahlina is already down there with Luccan, and she can do more for him than you, and second, you just yanked the drain out of your wound and probably screwed everything up and you need to get back into the bed while I fetch a healer and then clean up the mess you’ve made of our work. Last, but not at all least, my khalta will be far too small for you!”
But Han had stopped listening. “All these years,” he said, changing the subject as he yanked the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his waist, “I’ve looked out for that wizard, and he disappears just when I need him most.” He swept out of the room, barely glancing at his bewildered friend as he passed. “But thanks for rescuing the boy,” he called back over his shoulder,
having already limped a good twenty feet down the hall.
He noticed that people were scurrying out of his way, and he figured that for once in his life being a scary individual was serving him well. He made it down the stairs in a kind of stumbling hop but tripped off the second-to-the-bottom step.
Strong arms caught him before he fell. Strong brown arms, maybe a little furrier than average. The mostly bare, super-cut chest Han’s head had plowed into was also furrier than most. Han did not have to see his rescuer’s face to know who it was—the furriness and otter-skin khalta gave it away—but it was a surprise and his once-again fever-ridden head was none too clear, so he looked up just to be sure. His vision was wavering in a most nauseating way, but when he squinted, he recognized a friendly face he was very thankful to see. “Tiro,” he said. “You’re back.”
Tiro more or less picked Han up to move him off the stairs and leaned him up against a wall around the corner. Once he was sure Han was balanced and steady enough, he stepped back and looked him over. He put a hand on his hip and, with an indignant look that reminded Han of Tiro’s daughter, L’Aria, launched into a scold. “Han, what’s happened to you? You’re feverish! I can feel the heat rolling off you. Blood is dripping down your leg. And why, in the name of any god, are you running around in a nightshirt and a blanket?”
“I need to see Luccan.” Han meant to say more but stopped to catch his breath, and before he could continue, Tennehk and Tahlina both spoke at once behind him.
“Get this patient back upstairs!” barked Tahlina.
“The Suth Chiell’s been hurt,” Tennehk started, apparently having heard part of the conversation, possibly trying to fill in some blanks for Tiro.
Zhevi and L’Aria, each munching an apple, came up behind Tiro at that moment and stepped up to flank him, sort of peeking around the big shifter like small children might from their mother’s skirts.