Sister of the Sword

20

Plainsmen say Soli, the white moon, is a messenger of change. It hugs the horizon when it first appears and rises into the open sky reluctantly. In spring and autumn it ascends modestly and in winter hardly appears at all above the mountains rimming the Valley of the Falls. Because of its habits, the plainsmen say Soli brings rain in the spring by climbing higher in the sky to pour water on the thirsty soil below, and it carries the green leaves away in the fall (sinking to the its low, winter-time position). Only in summer did Soli linger near the zenith of heaven, keeping temperatures high. It never made sense to Amero that a cool moon rather than the hot sun should be blamed for summer’s heat, but that was the lore he’d learned from his mother, a long time ago.

Now, standing with Lyopi between two bonfires, surrounded by the whole of Yala-tene, the nomad band, former raiders, a highborn elf, and Duranix, Amero found himself sweating. It was the fires, he told himself, or maybe all the wine he’d drunk—

Be honest, Duranix’s silent voice said inside his head. You’re nervous!

I guess I am, Amero replied.

The nomad pipers finished their tune, and silence fell over the assembly. No one seemed quite sure what to do next, so Balif, playing the ignorant foreigner, asked, “What happens now?”

“We declare ourselves mates before the oldest person present,” said Lyopi. “That would be Jenla.”

The gardener, leaning on Tepa’s arm, said mischievously, “I’m not the oldest one here.” She stared pointedly at Balif.

“But I’m not a human,” Balif objected. “Besides, Farolenu is older than I—by two and a half decades.”

Amero cleared his throat. “If we’re going to be truthful, there’s one here older even than the elves.” He looked up at the dragon, smiling. “You’re past two hundred, aren’t you?”

“Well past,” agreed Duranix.

“Will you hear our declaration?”

The bronze dragon nodded, a habit he’d acquired since knowing Amero. His scales rang with the gesture.

“Come forward and face us,” Amero said.

Duranix clomped toward them, scattering villagers in his way. Framed by the twin bonfires, his metallic scales took on the color of fire itself. He opened his wings to their fullest extent, some forty paces from tip to tip and inflated his broad chest with air.

Amero winked at Lyopi. His old friend was showing off.

“I am Amero, son of Oto and Kinar,” the Arkuden shouted, “brother of Nianki and Menni, called the Dragon’s Son!”

There was some muttering at the mention of Menni, but the declaration went on.

Lyopi, her chestnut hair free of its usual braid and falling in shining waves to her waist, spoke. “I am Lyopi, daughter of Bydas and Ensamen, sister of Unar.”

Her voice broke on the name of her murdered brother, and Amero took her hand, squeezing it gently.

In unison they said, “Know all that we are mated, that all we have belongs to both of us!”

They bowed together to Duranix. “Such a lot of trouble just to breed,” he said in his booming voice. Some of the nomads laughed.

“You should say, ‘I know you, Amero and Lyopi’” Amero prompted.

“I know you, Amero and Lyopi,” the dragon repeated dutifully. “Stubborn, curious, passionate, and loyal are you both. Salute!”

He threw back his head and let his jaws gape. Blue-white lightning erupted from his mouth, crackling straight up into the starry sky. The crowd shifted and exclaimed at the display of power.

Amero’s own awed expression, as he stared up at the bolt lancing into the stars, dissolved into a frown of characteristic curiosity. Where did it go? he wondered. Did the bolt travel forever until it struck something, or did it fade out in time, like a spark carried aloft from a campfire?

Lyopi tugged at his arm and whispered, “Remember me? I’m your mate.”

They embraced and kissed to the cheers of the crowd. The flute players found some drummers among the villagers, and they struck up a fast melody. Round dances sprang up in the crowd as well-wishers flowed past Amero and Lyopi.

Balif was one of the first. “Good fortune to you,” the elf said sincerely. “It’s been quite an experience for me, coming here. Remind me to thank Karada for capturing us!”

“Peace to you, Lord Balif,” said Amero. “Peace in the truest sense. I hope the war between you and my sister is over for good.”

“We shall see. Farewell to you both.”

Farolenu clasped hands with Amero and presented Lyopi with a small golden charm on a length of woven grass twine. It glittered in the firelight. Amero tied it around Lyopi’s neck as she examined it.

“It’s pretty,” she said, pleased. “A beetle?”

“A spider,” said Farolenu. “The symbol of my smithing guild.”

He and Balif were soon swallowed in the crowd. Old friends streamed past, wishing the newly mated couple well—Adjat the potter, Montu the cooper, Hulami, Targun, Pakito, and Samtu. The amiable giant all but wrung Amero’s hand off, he was so enthusiastic.

“Being mated is the best thing in the world!” he enthused. “Better than a fine horse or a straight spear!”

“Good to know you rate so highly,” Lyopi said to Samtu.

The stout nomad woman eyed her towering mate. “He didn’t say it was better than elk steak. That’s what he loves most, you know.”

“Now, Sammi—” Pakito began. Laughing, she pulled him away so others could approach.

Beramun emerged from the press with Harak. Her left arm was in a sling, and she looked wan. Amero had heard about developments between them from Karada, but this was the first time he’d seen them together.

“Thank you for everything,” Amero said to Beramun. “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for you.”

“I only did what others tried to do. Fate and the Great Spirits let me find Karada.”

“I didn’t mean that, though you were wonderful on your mission, too. I meant you refused me, and for that I’m grateful.”

“As am I,” said Harak with a grin.

“Will you be joining Karada’s band?” Lyopi asked.

“I go where Beramun goes,” he said simply. “I don’t much care where that is.”

Beramun said, “I don’t know what we’ll end up doing, but we are leaving with Karada tomorrow.”

She and Lyopi kissed each other’s cheek, then she did the same to Amero.

They exchanged words with Bahco, Hekani, and almost the entire crowd present. The only conspicuous absence was Karada. To Amero’s query, Bahco said he hadn’t seen his chief since before moonrise.

Amero realized it was hard for his sister to see him mated and happy. She herself would likely never know a moment such as this.

“I must find Nianki,” he said in Lyopi’s ear. “I need to see her.”

She understood. “Try dark and quiet places. If I were Karada, that’s where I’d be right now.”

He promised to return to Lyopi’s house—their house—before too late. Giving his hand a squeeze, she let him go. Amero slipped into the happy throng and worked his way away from the noise and fire.

He called silently to Duranix, Have you seen Karada?

Not lately, but she’s near. I can sense her presence.

Amero stopped in his tracks. You can?

My senses have grown sharper with the years. Nowadays, her thoughts seem as loud as yours were when we first met.

Dust swirled over the festive mob. Amero looked up and saw Duranix had taken wing.

Going home? he asked the dragon.

Hunting. The trifles you served at your feast only teased my appetite. There’s a great herd of elk a few leagues from here. I’m off to roast a few....

Good luck, thought Amero. Let’s talk tomorrow. I have new ideas for Yala-tene I need your help to accomplish.

Of course you do. Till then.

“Until then,” Amero murmured aloud.

The vast bulk of the dragon blotted out the stars as he winged away to the southwest. Amero felt great gladness as he watched the departure. Duranix’s responses were more like his old self. Once he became involved in daily life in the village again, the wanderlust of recent days was sure to leave him.

Since Bahco said he hadn’t seen Karada in their camp, Amero started his search with the lakeshore from the west baffle back to the old foundry. He saw the Silvanesti sleeping on their bedrolls outside the broken foundry walls, but he found no sign of his sister. Doubling back, he went as far as the old raider camp and the stone towers of the fallen bridge. His feet crunched over the dross of battle—broken spears and throwing sticks, scraps of leather armor. Compared to the life and noise of the feast, the site of Zannian’s camp was like a graveyard. Nianki wasn’t there, so he quickly left.

The only remaining possibility was the nomad camp. Perhaps she had returned there after Bahco left for the mating ceremony. Amero skirted the fringes of the celebration, as he didn’t want to be delayed by well-meaning greetings.

The camp itself was calm. A few dogs tied in front of their masters’ tents barked at him as he passed. At one spot he saw something he hadn’t seen before—a willow rack laden with cured yevi hides. The yevi pack that had accompanied the raiders to the valley had been devastated during the siege, and before Karada’s arrival most had been killed or run off. Nomad hunters searched the neighboring valleys after the final battle, killing every yevi they found. Their gray, shaggy skins were too coarse to wear, but Amero knew why Karada’s people saved the hides. Posted in the high passes, yevi pelts served as a potent warning to other would-be marauders.

Amero walked through the camp. Arriving at last at her tent, he found Karada. She was seated by the fire and draped in her white wolfs robe. Their blind brother sat a few steps away, a trencher of meat before him. Amero smiled. Karada must have brought him the food.

“Nianki,” he said. She didn’t look up, but Zannian tilted his head and turned sightless eyes toward his elder brother.

“Is it done?” she asked, poking the low flames with a stick.

“It is. I am mated at last.”

“Good for you,” said Zannian. “Is Beramun with you? heard she agreed to see me.”

“I’m alone.”

Amero crossed the large tent and sat down at the hearth across from his sister. She dropped her stick into the flames.

“I wish you’d been there,” he said. “The whole valley turned out to see us. As the oldest creature in the valley, Duranix played the elder’s part.”

“We’ll be gone by midday tomorrow,” Karada said abruptly. “I wanted to be out before then, but Bearclaw Gap is too narrow to allow the band to ride out more than two abreast.”

“There’s no hurry, you know. Stay longer if you want.”

“No, it’s time to go. I’ve stayed long enough, and I can’t bear to see you—” She cut herself off, jaw muscles jumping as she clenched her teeth.

“You both sound strange,” Zannian said, yawning. “What’s wrong? You’re talking like a jilted lover, Karada.”

“Shut up,” she told him.

“Hmph,” Zannian said, yawned widely, and pushed his trencher aside. He curled up on a bearskin with his back to them and soon was snoring.

“I thought he’d never sleep,” she grumbled. “I put herbs in his wine—the same ones I used to soothe Beramun.”

“Don’t worry about him. I’ll make a gardener of him yet.”

She looked him in the face for the first time. “Don’t be a complete fool, will you, Amero? Brother or not, he’s a savage, bloody killer and will be again if he gets the chance.”

“People change.”

“No, they don’t. Have you forgotten so soon what he tried to do to your village?”

Now it was Amero’s turn to look away. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Besides, Lyopi won’t let me do anything stupid.”

Mentioning his new mate was a mistake. Nianki brought her fist down on a hearthstone, splitting her knuckles. Amero rose, expressing concern.

“Stop!” she said, holding up her bleeding hand. “Pain helps sometimes. I found that out long ago. Don’t try to comfort me.”

Amero sat down with a thump. Her calm, flat statement—pain helps sometimes—sent a chill down his back.

“I only want to be a good brother,” he said at last.

“You are good. Most brothers wouldn’t have anything to do with a tormented, unnatural sister like me. But you’re always kind.” She covered her eyes with her hands. “Sometimes that just makes it harder. Your kindness can be as bitter as Zannian’s hatred.”

The tent was quiet, save for the crack and pop of the fire. Into the awkward silence, Amero said, “What if I asked Balif for help? An elf used spirit power to inflict this curse on you. Perhaps another elf can cure you. I know he’ll help if he can. He and I have become friends.”

Nianki lowered her hands and gazed wonderingly at Amero. She laughed, a short, harsh bark of sound.

“Merciful spirits! He’s not your friend! He’s an honorable enemy, no more. Besides, I don’t want all of Silvanost to know my problems.”

“They may already. Vedvedsica’s in disgrace, Balif says. His past doings are a public scandal. If there’s a chance Balif could help—”

“Enough! I don’t want to talk about it any more! I will be fine.” With effort she added in a calmer tone, “Go home, Amero. I’m sure your new mate wonders where you are.”

He circled the hearth, bent down, and took her under the arms, dragging her to her feet. Nianki pulled out of his grip easily, though she looked a bit flushed.

“Farewell, sister. I suppose I won’t see you tomorrow.”

“No. I’ll send Zannian to you.”

“I’ll take care of him.”

She nodded. He clenched his empty hands into fists, resisting the urge to embrace her.

“Peace to you, Nianki, for all your life,” he said and left the tent. He didn’t hear her murmured response.

“Peace to you, Arkuden. Peace forever.”

The feast had broken up by the time Amero left his sister. Small bands of nomads and villagers carried on earnestly, but the majority had gone to bed. The great bonfires were heaps of ashes now, with a few bright embers winking through. Heat shimmered above the firepits, blurring the cold stars. Soli was high, gathering in the offering of heat, saving it for the next sweltering summer day.

Amero walked faster. He felt very guilty for having left Lyopi so long, on this night of all nights. Oh, well, he could spend the next decade or two making it up to her. The thought made him grin as he climbed the mound of rubble outside the north baffle.

Compared to the open valley, the streets of Yala-tene were dim and close. By day the stone houses soaked up heat from the sun and remained warm all night. In the winter this was a blessing, but in summer it was close to intolerable. Many villagers abandoned their houses in the warmest weather and slept outside. Some, like Hekani, preferred to camp outside the walls most nights, so long as no rain was falling.

The route Amero followed back to his and Lyopi’s house was deserted. He saw no one on the way, met no families sleeping on the cooler dirt path. By Soli’s light he could see the crossing paths ahead. To the right was the lane leading home. Sweating from the sultry night and his brisk pace, Amero decided to detour long enough to get a dipper of cool water from the cistern at the Offertory.

As he crossed the lane, he heard the soft scrape of leather on stone. He glanced around and saw nothing. The shadows were too deep.

No need to be so jumpy, he chided himself. There were no Jade Men left, seeking his blood.

The outer walls of the Offertory shone in the moonlight. Lutar was long set, so the pure white light of Soli was bright on the white stones. The upper courses of the wall had been mined away during the siege, but enough was left to shine like a beacon in the night. Amero went, inside to the cistern. The Sensarku’s drinking gourd was still hanging on its peg. He stirred the water, then filled the dipper.

Clink. Metal on stone.

“Hello?” he called. “Is someone there?”

No answer. He drank the water and returned the gourd to its place.

“Can’t sleep?” he said, conversing with his unseen guest. “I can’t blame you. It’s too hot in the village. Water’s good, though. Help yourself.”

He turned to go. As he passed through the gap in the Offertory walls, he heard the rapid patter of feet coming at him. Puzzled, he faced the oncoming sound.

Out of the darkness hurtled a slender figure, wrapped in a black ox hide cape. He got a fleeting impression of a pale face wreathed in curly auburn hair. The next thing Amero knew, a span of sharp bronze penetrated his buckskin shirt, then the flesh below his left ribs.

Astonished, he grasped the two hands holding the dagger’s handle and forced them back. The blade twisted as it was pulled out. Blood sluiced from the wound, pouring down his leg and over his feet.

“Die, traitor!” said a high, quavering voice.

Duranix devoured six full-grown elk before midnight and then settled down to sleep off his prodigious meal. His heavy, dreamless rest ended suddenly when he felt a sharp pain in his lower left side. The sensation was so strong and so real that he felt along his scaly flank, expecting to find a fresh wound. There was none.

His long neck snapped around, and he stared at the intervening mountains. Something was wrong—deadly wrong.

“Amero,” he said, and launched himself skyward.

Karada took her hand out of the fire. Since Amero’s departure, she’d been testing herself, seeing how long she could bear a flame against the palm of her hand. Zannian continued to snore behind her.

She counted the thud of her heartbeat silently. One, two, three, four... the skin on her palm began to blister. Suddenly, an even stronger pain lanced into her side. Karada gasped and slumped away from the hearth. Under the wolfskin robe the flesh on her left side, between her ribs and hip bone, was unbroken, but it felt for all the world as though she’d been stabbed.

Zannian snorted and stirred. He pushed himself up on one hand, muttering obscenities. “Who did that?” he growled, obviously thinking himself still in command of his raiders. “Which one of you scum poked me with your dagger?”

Karada tied a beaded belt tightly around her waist and grabbed her sword belt. If she and Zannian both felt the stabbing pain in the same spot at the same time, Amero must have felt it, too. Something about that thought filled her with dread. A sense of urgency sent her running from the tent.

She had to find him. She had to find Amero now.

Lyopi sat up a long time, waiting for her man to come home. She knew his meeting with Karada would he difficult, but she didn’t begrudge him the time it would take to say good-bye to his powerful, troubled sister. Midnight came and went, and still Amero did not return. Patience gave way to annoyance. Certainly, this wasn’t the first night they’d spent together, but it was supposed to be an important one. Where was that inconsiderate, overgrown boy?

A sound at the door flap sent her striding to the opening. She drew back the flap, and a bloody spectre barred her way. Lyopi was not easily frightened, but this unexpected apparition brought a cry of surprise to her lips.

The gory vision raised its head, and Lyopi felt her stomach clench in horror.

“Amero!”

He fell into her arms. She backed inside, half-dragging her blood-soaked mate with her. After lowering him to the floor, she felt at his neck for a pulse. It was there, weak and rapid, but he’d lost—by the ancestors!—he’d lost so much blood!

There was a deep wound in his left side, obviously made by a metal blade. No flint knife could make so thin and clean a cut, though it appeared the knife had been twisted in the wound.

All this she took in even as she was frantically wadding a piece of doeskin and pressing it to the bleeding wound. Amero stirred, trying to escape the pain her pressure created.

“Be still!” she snapped, fear coursing through her. “You’re bleeding to death!”

He coughed feebly, his body spasming. He said something, but the words bubbled so horribly in his throat she couldn’t make them out.

“What?” She pressed hard on the makeshift bandage with her strong hands. “Who did this to you, Amero?”

“Sensarku girl.”

He must be delirious. All the Sensarku had died on the western plain with their leader, Tiphan. There were none left, in Yala-tene or anywhere else.

Amero trembled violently. His teeth chattered. Lyopi pulled a fleecy hide over him and cradled his head in her lap. Looking toward the doorway, she shouted for help.

“Lyopi,” he whispered.

“Shh, don’t talk.” She shouted again for help.

“Don’t be angry,” he said weakly.

“I’m not angry, Amero, but I’ll never forgive you if you die!”

“Duranix...”

Tears of terror and frustration were coursing down her cheeks. “I don’t know where he is!”

“So many things to know... so many.”

He exhaled a long, slow breath. It was his last.

Duranix had never flown so fast, not even while chasing Sthenn around the world. He couldn’t seem to find any greater speed, no matter how he canted his wings or knotted his tremendous muscles. He would be too late. He knew it.

Amero spoke his name, and he demanded, Why didn’t you wait? I was coming!

Like a fading echo, he heard: So many things to know... so many. That was all. Though Duranix called and called, he heard nothing more.

His wings slowed. The throbbing strain in his flying muscles eased, but a more pervasive and subtle pain held Duranix in an unbreakable grip. He roared at the empty sky. His bellow solved nothing. The pain remained. He flew on.

Karada ran a hundred steps before she staggered to a stop, falling against a tent pitched by the path. Down she slid to her knees, feeling as though she were plunging into an icy river. Vicious cold climbed to her neck, then her eyes. When it reached the top of her head, it slowly left her.

Someone was calling her name. “Karada! Karada!”

Her vision cleared. Mara was kneeling in front of her, shaking her by the shoulders.

“What? What?”

“Karada, we’re safe now!” Mara said, green eyes ablaze. “I saved us! I saved us all!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I stopped the Arkuden!”

Cold fury as hard and sharp as flint put strength back into the nomad chief. She seized Mara by the hair and hauled her upright.

“What have you done?” she snarled, shaking the girl so hard her neck bones creaked.

Mara’s hands clutched futilely at the strong fingers entwined in her hair, her words punctuated by yelps of pain. “I struck him down, Karada! For all of us! For you! He was your brother, but he was a traitor! He gave us over to the Silvanesti —”

Karada uttered a scream of pure anguish, punctuated by Mara’s whimpering, and drew her sword.

The tumult awakened the nomads, and they spilled out of their tents. They saw their chief, tears streaming down her face, holding the girl Mara by the hair. Karada’s sword was bared.

“I’ll kill you!” Karada rasped.

“Karada, please, listen! I did it for you! Your fight to drive the elves off our ancestral lands was doomed! The Arkuden betrayed you —”

Up went the gleaming sword. Mara stopped clutching at her hair and threw up her hands as though to ward off the blow. It never fell. Karada’s sword hand was held harmless in Pakito’s mighty grip.

“Let me go, Pakito!”

“No, chief. I don’t know what’s happened here, but you can’t kill this helpless girl.” He yanked the sword from her hand. Turning, he gave it to Samtu, who stood behind him, her own weapon at the ready.

“Let her go, Karada,” Samtu said. “We won’t let her get away.”

The nomad chief opened her hand, releasing her hold on Mara’s tangled hair. The girl dropped heavily at her feet, weeping. When she tried to wrap her arms around the chiefs ankles, Karada kicked her until she shrank away. Mara groveled, not even protesting the blows she’d taken.

“What’s she done?” Samtu asked, grimacing at the distasteful display.

“I think... she’s killed Amero.”

The assembled nomads exclaimed and swore in amazement.

“When did this happen?” demanded Bahco, clutching a panther-skin wrap around his waist.

“Just now,” whispered Karada.

The nomads looked around, as though expecting to see Amero’s body lying at their feet. “Where? Where is he?”

Karada repeated the question to Mara. When the wailing girl did not answer, Karada kicked her hard. Pakito promptly lifted his leader off her feet and set her down out of reach of the girl. Samtu took hold of Mara’s collar and pulled her to her feet.

“The Arkuden betrayed us!” Mara sobbed. “He traded our bows and arrows to the elves in exchange for the secret of making bronze!”

The assembled nomads muttered loudly at that. Pakito bellowed for silence.

“This girl is addled!” he said angrily. “You can’t go by what she says. The Arkuden is a wise and honorable man. He wouldn’t betray us to the Silvanesti!”

“There’s one way to find out,” said Bahco. He dressed quickly and gathered a few men. They headed to the village foundry.

Samtu laid a gentle hand on Karada’s arm. “Let’s find the Arkuden,” she said. “Maybe this is nothing more than a bad dream the girl had.”

“My brother is dead,” was the flat response. “She killed him.”

Pushed along by Samtu, Karada went with Pakito and two dozen nomads to the village. They found the streets filled with torch-bearing villagers. All of Yala-tene seemed to be awake.

Karada led them unerringly through the crowd, directly to Lyopi’s house. By the hearth, covered with an elk hide, lay Amero. Lyopi sat by his head, hands clasped to her lips. She looked up when Karada entered.

“Sensarku girl,” Lyopi said weakly. “When I asked who stabbed him, that’s what he said.”

Karada nodded. “It was the girl Mara. We have her.”

Lyopi turned away, looking back at her dead mate. Karada whirled and walked outside, unable to bear the sight of her brother’s still, slack face—the face that in life had always been so animated, so full of curiosity and vitality.

Spying the trail of blood outside the door, Karada followed it back to the Offertory. There was more blood there, and something else—a bronze dagger. She picked it up, hands shaking. She recognized the weapon; she’d taken it from Balif the night of his capture. It was the same one she’d let Mara keep after expelling her for her false accusation of Harak.

She ran back to Lyopi’s house through lanes filled with stunned, silent villagers. Outside the house, Mara was slumped on the ground between two angry-looking nomads. Karada stalked over. She lifted Mara by the front of her doeskin tunic until the girl’s toes barely touched the ground.

“No matter what happens, no matter what anyone else says or does, I’m going to kill you,” Karada said. All color drained from Mara’s face, leaving her freckles standing out starkly. She was speechless with terror.

Pakito came out of the house, and Karada thrust the bloody dagger at him. “Take this,” she commanded. “Keep it safe. It’s what she killed him with.” Pakito carefully put the weapon in his belt, then watched his chief warily, prepared to intervene should she try to harm Mara.

Karada noticed his scrutiny. Disgusted, she threw Mara at his feet. “Put her in Nacris’s old tent. Chain her so she can’t run away!”

Pakito gestured, and two nomads spirited Mara away.

Lyopi emerged, supported on Samtu’s arm. Tears ran down her cheeks. The breast of her tunic was soaked with them, but her grief was silent. She took Karada’s hands in hers.

“The dragon must be told,” she said, her voice harsh and low with anguish. “Who will tell him? Who will tell Duranix Amero is dead?”

Karada lifted eyes to the night sky, an unnatural chill raising gooseflesh on her arms. “Duranix already knows,” she replied.