Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows Read online

  But she had never seen a lord challenge Isladar.

  "Be certain you wish to continue," Lord Isladar said mildly. "You know my blade. You forged it."

  "Perhaps." Lord Anduvin lowered his blade. "But I have not seen you draw it since you traveled the divide. Much was lost in the first transition. Much has been lost in the second."

  "Your own blade—"

  "I am the master; I am the Swordsmith."

  "There were others."

  "There were no others!" He lifted his perfect sword. The Southern humans in the Shining Court often discussed the edge of the blade; the temper; the mix of metals that had gone into its birthing. They argued about sheaths, and the style of sheaths; about human conceits. She found any discussion about armaments interesting. But she would never find mortal discussion as interesting again.

  Anduvin's sword…

  Air had been its sheath; Kiriel had not known, until the hilt was in his hand, that he had carried a weapon at all— although the lack of a weapon meant less for the Kialli than it did for the mortals.

  "Will you draw your blade, Lord Isladar?"

  "If I draw it, I will pay its price."

  "I would see that."

  "It would be the last thing you saw." His words were mild; he folded his arms across his chest, but he did not otherwise move. "If I have offered insult, it was merely parry; if you seek to die for it—Kialli have died for less."

  "Or killed for less."

  "Yes."

  But she knew, when he spoke, that the fires in Anduvin's words had been banked.

  "Lord Anduvin?"

  "Hush, mortal."

  She was silent for the full count of ten seconds. But before she could speak—and she was young then and would have, he turned to her. "Now ask your question."

  "Your blade."

  "Yes?"

  "It is not like other Kialli swords."

  He became as still as the ice on the mountains outside her favorite window. "How is it different, child?"

  "It looks like any other Kialli sword," she said, with the ease of youth, "but it… is not of the fire."

  "Not of the fire? But it is—can you not see the flames that surround it?"

  She nodded, quietly. "But the swords of the others—the others who draw swords at all—have hearts of fire. Flame surrounds your sword, but its heart is steel."

  His eyes widened. "This child," he said to Isladar, momentary animosity forgotten, "will be a marvel."

  "Or a doom."

  "Or indeed a doom. You see truly, child. The red flames are camouflage; they are not the blade's heart. I am Anduvin the Swordsmith. In the Hells. Or here." He bowed. "Once, ages past, I made swords for mortals and for the living children of the gods. This is the first such blade that I have made since—for a long time. And I believe it will be the last. It will kill you today if you do not understand its nature."

  The blade burned her now; between the one hand and the other, she wondered idly if opposing magicks would cripple her.

  She wondered why the blade of her sword was slick with a red, wet sheen.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Where did you get that sword?"

  Ashaf's voice.

  Ashaf's unwelcome voice, sharp with disapproval. Years later, Kiriel would understand that it was no less a weapon than a sword, a claw, a fang—but she would deflect it less effectively, for all her understanding. She did not understand why, but she did not like to see Ashaf unhappy, and if she was the source of that unwelcome emotion, it was worse.

  Isladar and Anduvin had left Kiriel in the relative safety of the courtyard at the base of her Tower. Twilight had come to the wastes, and it lingered. When the long night fell, the old woman would return to the safety of walls that Lord Isladar had enchanted to protect them both while they slept.

  But until the darkness came, Ashaf felt at ease at the Tower's base. And ill at ease with the weapon.

  Kiriel had been alone with it for two hours now, examining the intricacies of its surface, the subtleties of its maker's craft. She had examined Southern swords before—and they were considered to be the finest swords that mortals could now produce. Although there were hints among the kin and the Kialli that this had not always been the case, the kin now felt that the Swords of Annagar were little more than sharpened utensils, best used for eating things that were already dead and would therefore offer no resistance.

  Two hours, and she did not feel sick, or unwell; she did not feel fevers; she did not feel bespelled. And yet she had heard Anduvin's words, and she knew that he spoke the truth: the blade would kill her if she did not figure out what to feed it.

  "Lord Anduvin made it," Kiriel told her, ill at ease as well, but determined not to disgrace herself by showing it— and resenting the old woman's reminder. She wanted to add "for me" but was aware—as if truth in that childhood place was as stark as the weather of the Hells—that this was not precise.

  "And why did Lord Anduvin give the sword to you?"

  "I need a weapon. And Lord Isladar asked him to make it for me."

  "Why? Kiriel, have you blooded the blade?"

  She did not lie to Ashaf. She did not need to. "No."

  "Good." Pale, wrinkled hands, veined in emerald and sapphire beneath delicate skin, reached for the hilt.

  Kiriel cried out; a visceral anger and an equally visceral terror took hold of her, both too strong for words. She struck her nursemaid, shunting her to one side with the full force of a slender shoulder. The old woman struck the wall and crumpled, winded.

  She hadn't been hit very hard.

  For the first time, Kiriel wondered if she would end up like this: Bowed by age; weak and helpless in the face of the slightest of blows. It was a terrifying thought: mortality.

  Almost as terrifying as the disgust she felt staring across at this soft, useless woman, this waiting victim. The sword, untouched by any hand but hers, now hung at her side, its tip trailing flagstone as she turned, slowly, toward the gate.

  Lord Isladar's words joined her as she stood, sword in hand in the courtyard before Ashaf's bowed head; the rest of him did not follow. A reminder that he watched, always.

  Feed the sword, Kiriel. Feed it, and it will serve you.

  She understood, then. The disgust receded. She saw not weakness, not victim, but Ashaf. The only woman—the only person—with whom she could share the desperate desire to be both comforted and loved.

  No.

  You accepted what was forged, Kiriel. The sword is not a child's weapon. It was created by the Swordsmith; he is Kialli in a way that defies your experience. His Art has survived the passage to, and from, the Hells. This is the first blade he has created since the Kialli were appointed the stewards of those who have Chosen. Do you understand? Millennia of deprivation have ended with this blade. It is powerful; more powerful than we intended.

  Fail to feed it, and you will die.

  No.

  The sword is an extension of you. An extension of us. It reflects our basest truths. The woman is old and frail. She cuts herself on shards of simple stone; she has no defense against something as simple as air; the weather can kill her. A single imp would be her death—her slow death. Do you not understand her purpose?

  She was brought here to take care of me!

  Yes. Until such a day as this. You have been given your weapon—you no longer need to be treated like the human young.

  No!

  He came then.

  She had only rarely seen him robed in Shadow; had only rarely been forced to acknowledge the power that he kept—against all demonic protocol—concealed. At his side, eyes the color and sheen of new steel, Lord Anduvin.

  "I would not, if I were you," the Swordsmith said, speaking not to Kiriel but to her master.

  Lord Isladar did not move. "Do not offer advice when you are not well acquainted with the particulars of the situation."

  "I am acquainted with the particulars of the weapon; it is one of mine, and inasmuch as a creator ca
n understand the complexities of a living work, I understand it. You cannot force her to give what is required."

  "I have never forced her hand," Lord Isladar replied, his eyes on his student. "I have always allowed her both choice and its consequences. At most I have made certain she understands the consequences of her decision."

  Kiriel met his eyes and looked away, the motion almost continuous. But her gaze was not a random attempt to avoid his glare; there was purpose in the movement. The old woman, winded by the force of a blow meant to save her life, was stirring. It was clear, as she lifted her head, that she was struggling for breath. And struggling with pain. Could something so simple have broken her ribs?

  She saw Ashaf clearly: weak, soft, old. So close to death it might be a mercy to end the life that bound them.

  And they were bound.

  She reached out with her free hand to help her nursemaid to her feet, and she found herself turning to both Anduvin and Isladar, subtly interposing herself between them and the old woman.

  Even though she was disgusted. Even then.

  "She is mine," her words said; her voice told a different story.

  "Is she worth your life?" Isladar spoke, for the first time that day, in Torra.

  Kiriel answered him in the language of the Kialli. She lifted the sword and swung it in a slow, steady arc, until it came to rest point first, in a straight line that joined them.

  She was young, but she wasn't stupid.

  Lord Isladar's eyes narrowed. "You are not my equal, Kiriel."

  "I've seen you use more of your power than anyone."

  "She has fangs, Isladar. Even if they are too small to be of real danger, she attempts their use. How like a… young one." His eyes narrowed as he spoke the last two words.

  Kiriel's curiosity and her muted anger struggled for a minute. It wasn't a contest. This Kialli lord was like no Kialli she had ever met—and she had met a lot of them. "Did you have children?"

  "Kiriel." Isladar's word was a whip's snap. Anger appeared in the brief break of syllables; he concealed it by the time the last had died into silence.

  Lord Anduvin said nothing at all, his gaze intent. She did not like him… but she did not instantly dislike him, as she did the other kinlords.

  "Kiriel?" Ashaf's voice was surprisingly steady as she pulled her hand free and stood without aid. Kiriel felt the sudden freedom as a shock of cold against her empty palm.

  She said nothing.

  "Kiriel, what did he mean when he asked if I was worth your life?"

  "Nothing."

  "But he—"

  "He wants me to kill you."

  "That isn't what he said. He said—"

  "I heard him," Kiriel snarled. "But he never speaks in Torra—to me—without a reason. I'm not going to do what he wants, so he's trying to get you to—to help him."

  "Why is he speaking of your death?"

  "Because," she said slowly, as if Ashaf were the child, and Kiriel the mother, "if I'm not willing to kill you, he thinks you might be stupid enough to kill yourself to save me."

  Isladar lifted his hands and clapped, slowly. "Very good," he said, still speaking in Torra. "But, Kiriel, I have no need to lie. I am telling her the truth."

  "I want you to go upstairs," Kiriel continued, speaking to Ashaf as if Isladar had not interrupted her. Ashaf didn't move; Kiriel glanced over her shoulder and saw the old woman's face. The lines there had been etched by sun and wind long before Kiriel's birth, but Kiriel had always found them beautiful.

  The strangest thing in this long afternoon was finding that she still did, "Ashaf?" She reached out with her cold, empty hand. The older woman relented, and took it. "I need you to go upstairs. Please. You know he wants something. You know he's never let me be killed. But if you're in danger, I can't think. You know what happens to Kialli who can't think."

  The expression on the older face softened visibly as she looked down at her charge.

  Deliberately, because she knew a public act of contrition would anger Lord Isladar, Kiriel added, "I'm sorry I hit you so hard. But the sword—you can't touch it."

  "Why not?"

  Lord Anduvin said, Unexpectedly and quietly, "It will kill you. Heed your mistress. This is a Kialli matter, and it would best be solved by your absence."

  Ashaf turned to the stranger. Isladar seldom allowed the Kialli—or the lesser kin for that matter—into the Tower courtyard. "Is Kiriel's life in danger?"

  "Oh, yes," he said, smiling at the way her face lost color. "But your presence here is no longer a factor in her survival." Ashaf hesitated another minute, and the Swordsmith said, "There are things that are best faced in private."

  His voice was gentle. He looked at Ashaf for a long while, and then added, "I would give much to know what he offered you to come to the wastes to raise this child, for I see that you are not bespelled, and you are not ignorant. You must know that you will never leave the Shining Palace, and that your death, when it comes, will be… unpleasant."

  "She's not going to die!" The sword, which had been heavy, lost weight as she swung it, wordless, a second time.

  "Hush, child. There are more imminent deaths with which to concern yourself." But again his voice was gentle.

  "Do you still search, Anduvin?" Lord Isladar was as quiet as Anduvin had been. "I fear that you search, as always, in vain."

  "So you said, in a different age, in a different world."

  "Indeed."

  "And you were… not wrong."

  "Indeed."

  "Search?" Kiriel asked, although it was hard to speak while he was staring at her.

  "Oh, yes."

  "For what?"

  "The perfect sheath."

  The sword burned. The ring burned. Between them, flesh. Mortality. Ashaf had been mortal.

  Something was caught in Kiriel's throat: a scream. She struggled to suppress the sound, but it was choking her; she managed, barely, to turn it on its edge, to make a roar of it.

  It was a wild, terrible sound.

  "Kiriel!"

  Kiriel.

  She recognized the voice.

  "Auralis?"

  The sword, she realized, was burning her because she had cut him; she recognized the scent of his blood on the blade.

  For a moment she was herself. But it lasted for as long as it took her to realize she didn't know what that meant.

  She killed. She killed imps. She killed kin summoned and controlled by lords who had tried unsuccessfully for years to kill her. It occupied the dark, clear evening.

  Like shadows, the Swordsmith and the lord who taught her everything she knew about survival trailed behind her, watching in silence. Waiting for her to admit what she already knew, these minor deaths did nothing to feed the sword.

  But the sword took the blood she offered; there was no need to wipe the blade clean.

  It also seemed to lose weight or substance as the evening drew to its natural close. What had been a struggle to lift became less and less of a burden until, by night's end, it felt as natural as her hands. It was certainly more efficient.

  But she had no answer.

  "The sword," Meralonne said.

  "It is the sword Kiriel has always wielded," Evayne replied.

  "It cannot be. I would have recognized the maker's mark."

  "From this distance," the woman who had once been his student said, "I see Shadow and the blood of a brave—or stupid—man. If there is a mark—"

  "You have always been so powerful it is easy to forget that there are some gifts time and experience will not grant. We must stop her, Evayne."

  "She may be able to contain herself: Look."

  Auralis bent at the knee as he parried the clumsy overhead blow—a movement too brutish and crude to be identified with Kiriel's regular fighting style. It left her open.

  Whatever held her in its grip, whatever possessed her now, she was fighting it. In the only way she knew how. Sadly, there was only one way to take advantage of what she offered. Th
ey had at least this much in common: they had learned to fight in a place where death was the most common reward for making a mistake. They did not know how—not safely—to lessen the force of their blows.

  And he didn't want to kill her.

  But he wasn't willing to die.

  Come on, damn you.

  "That's not what I meant," Meralonne said.

  Dawn.

  Ashaf rose with the sun, as much a part of daybreak as the wash of rising color across the northern peaks. No doubt she would be waiting now, rice dust under her fingernails, a fire in the grate, mats laid out on either side of the low table.

  She would wear the heavy formless robes that she said kept the cold at bay. Kiriel had never really felt the cold. Proof, if more were needed, that Ashaf was weak.

  And the weak died. That was the Law of the Hells.

  "Kiriel," Isladar said.

  "How will it kill me?" she said, speaking to the Swordsmith.

  He frowned. "In my youth, I made a blade for the Queen of the Winter Court. It was the finest weapon I had ever crafted."

  Kiriel's confusion was clear, but it was not Anduvin who chose to ease it.

  "She was our Lord's greatest rival. We were not always what we are now, Kiriel. Nor was the Winter Queen."

  "But if she was—"

  "Is."

  "—is our greatest enemy, why did he give her his best sword?"

  "Do you not understand?" He smiled. "Do not feel your lack of understanding too keenly. Very, very few of the Kialli could answer that question."

  "Lord Anduvin?"

  He did not look at her. His eyes were the color of Winter sky seen through storm's mask. "Understand that a weapon is not a trophy; not a badge of rank, not a sign of power. It is a weapon, no more, no less. Among my… kin were those who failed to understand this basic truth. They traded in magicks and drew their swords as a matter of quaint ritual. They had their power. My swords were a trifle."

  "An exaggeration, Anduvin."

  Anduvin's shrug was graceful. He stepped forward. Isladar raised a hand.