Analindë (The Chronicles of Lóresse) (37 page)

The Twenty-Third Chapter

S
everal days had passed since
Analindë had found the ancient forest and set of rooms tucked deep within the mountain. She hadn’t been back, but peace remained with her. Her anxieties had calmed, her emotional equilibrium remained balanced. She was almost happy.

She hadn’t sensed her pursuer for a few days, and life was proceeding as if things were normal. There was a lightness to her step that had not been there for a very long time. And she was noticing all sorts of things as she and Erulissé walked along the crowded city streets of Mirëdell. Like the winter birds chatting overhead, and the sprigs of holly tucked festively over lintels and in window boxes. She felt normal. Choices were open before her. She inhaled deeply, savoring the brisk crispness of the clear mountain air.

She’d chosen to start taking self-defense classes again. Which meant she and Erulissé were going shopping for daggers. Well, Erulissé didn’t know they were shopping for daggers. She thought they were going shopping for a sword. Either way, Analindë was actively choosing her course, determined to learn to ‘fly’ on her own—of course, not in the Pedar sense of the word—but she was choosing the direction she wanted and was making things happen, being active in life and not reactive.

“I still think that we should have invited one of the Sword Sworn to accompany us,” said Erulissé.

Analindë cast an amused glance at her friend.

Erulissé had fallen in love. Again. This one’s name was Lothorian; he was one of the senior
aprenti
slated to begin their
tuvalië
next Spring. It gave her the shivers if she took the time to think about it, but the two of them had met at the practice arena last week where Erulissé had lately been spending her free hours.

“It would be safer,” said Erulissé.

Analindë shuddered, and not because the wind had picked up just then. “I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

Including one of the Sword Sworn—of all people—on this jaunt into town would not be normal, and she was determined to regain normalcy in her life. No, Sword Sworn were definitely not normal.

They turned a corner and headed down the main road. The two ladies were on a mission, destination in mind. There was no need to browse store windows along the way. Analindë smiled as they walked, remembering how they’d come to have their destination in the first place.

Just yesterday, Erulissé had been flirting with the Sword Sworn Lothorian when she’d whipped out the blade she’d used for ages, attempting to impress the new love of her life. It had been comical to listen to Erulissé’s tortured version of events later that evening. The handsome
aprenti
had taken one look at the flimsy blade—complete with a girlish motif etched up the blade—that Erulissé had treasured since childhood and had tried and failed not to blanch. Erulissé still occasionally turned bright pink with embarrassment when she spoke of it.

The Sword Sworn had eloquently admired the beginners sword and very politely—and in a very roundabout way—suggested
The Satin Blade
as
the
place to find a weapon more worthy of her.

Analindë had chided Erulissé about her new flirt. Sword Sworn were different, uncomfortable. They had taken oaths, learned skills and uses for Energy that were only whispered about.

When no one else was around.

In the dead of night.

Behind a locked door.

Sword Sworn were too unknown, too fast, too extremely good at what they did. They were spies, they were guards, they held high ranking authority. They knew everything. Sensed everything. Read people like books. They were dangerous. Perhaps that’s why Erulissé had been hanging out at the practice arena for the past two weeks. She wanted risk. Either that or she was spying. Spying!

“Erulissé.” She tugged her friend’s sleeve as they maneuvered the crowded street. “Have you learned anything interesting at the practice arena?”

Her frown was immediate. “No. Unless you count the knowledge that my sword, the sword my
grandmother
gave me, is worth less than the scabbard that holds it.”

And that was why the two young women were weaving through Mirëdell’s marketplace looking for
the
shop.

Embarrassed by the encounter and recognizing he spoke nothing but the truth, Erulissé was determined to impress Lothorian by selecting a better blade. Shopping for weapons fit in perfectly with Analindë’s plans, so she’d tagged along without complaint.

“At least Andulmaion could’ve come with us.”

Analindë turned to look at her friend. “I thought you were in love with Lothorian?”

They left the crowded plaza and ducked down a side alleyway. The shortcut would bypass the busiest sections of the city and put them in striking distance of the older shops.

Erulissé pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “I think it would be better if we traveled with more people.”

Analindë glanced back at the well lit alleyway and then surveyed the street in front of her. It was a nicer section of town; trees grew along this street. Large planter boxes stuffed with sprigs of holly, winter berries, and colorful ribbons graced store fronts, and older, better-dressed elves quietly strolled, unrushed. Gone were the younger students and the boisterous crowds. This section of town reeked of exclusivity and merchandise was priced accordingly. It didn’t look like a section of town where they’d be attacked. One more street and they’d be there.

“If we run into trouble, this time I’ll just yell for help instead of running, okay? There are plenty of people around.”

Analindë had recounted the hair-raising experience of her last foray outside of the school proper and Erulissé was worried. The flutter was quiet today. So she thought it safe for just the two of them to venture out.

“Lothorian practically invited himself along.”

“I didn’t want to be a bother to anyone. We should be fine.”

“It wouldn’t have been a bother. He
wanted
to come.” She elbowed Analindë with a grin on her face. “Secretly, I’m relieved he didn’t come. It was embarrassing enough to look so silly. I don’t know much about blades. Now I can ask all the questions I need without worrying about looking stupid.” She paused to glance down a side street. “This way I think. They turned right, down the narrow alley.

The tall buildings down this row cut out most of the light filtering down from above. The cobbles were well tended, the store fronts were clean, and it looked safe. About thirty different weapons stores lined the street. Everything from darts to broadswords could be found and purchased here. Halfway down the narrow street on the left they found
The Satin Blade
under a black awning. The windows were dingy, unlike the other stores they’d passed, and what they
could
see of the inside looked cluttered.

“You’re sure this is the place?” Analindë hesitated as she eyed the obscuring weaves toying with her peripheral vision. She wondered how many people would stroll right past the shop, never knowing it was there.

“He said that the best could be found here.”

“Okay.” Analindë shrugged and wrestled the heavy door open. The springs on the hinges had been tightened to keep the door closed against the cold winter air. She braced the door while Erulissé entered, then she jumped through the opening as the door swung quickly shut behind her.

Shafts of light shone down from small windows high up on the walls. Dust motes filled the air, but surprisingly, the place did not smell musty. As she took her cloak off, her eyes traveled the length of the store and back. The entryway was cluttered. Blades of all sorts hung in matching sets along one wall, with shelves reaching up to waist level. Glass covered counters with shelves and drawers filled the middle of the floor and a complex shelving area covered the remaining two walls, a small passage to a back room was cut into the back wall.

Analindë trailed her finger along a two handed sword; it was well made.
Very
well made. She sensed no flaws within the metal. The blade was serviceable and had been cast with an anti-rust ward. She’d never studied blade making, but she recognized the intent behind the weave from her studies over the past several weeks.

“How may I assist you?” a melodious voice asked. Analindë swiveled around and tried to keep from gawking. One of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen had just emerged from the back room. She hadn’t expected the Sword Sworn to be beautiful. Hard-edged and lean, yes, but not soft and curvy with a pleasant smile.

“I’m Tierielle, owner of
The Satin Blade
.”

Tierielle? If Analindë didn’t guess wrong, she was standing in front of one of the best swordswomen in the Realm. They’d have to ask around the school when they got back.

“Tierielle? Of the Western lakes region, Tierielle?” Erulissé obviously didn’t have any qualms about asking the woman directly.

“Yes, one and the same,” the woman smiled.

“Oh! Lothorian has spoken of you,” Erulissé gushed. The older woman’s eyes twinkled. She continued, “I’m honored to meet you. I’m Erulissé. This is my friend Analindë.”

“Ah, nice to meet you both; I see you are friends of my nephew?” Tierielle looked between them questioningly. Realizing that the woman was attempting to figure out which one of them had caught Lothorian’s eye, Analindë nodded toward Erulissé. The woman nodded slightly and turned back to study her friend.

“Could you point me in the direction of your throwing daggers?” Analindë asked.

“You might start looking at that selection over there.” She gestured toward a case along the wall of hanging weapons. “On the second shelf are many blades properly weighted for a lady’s hand.”

“Thank you.” Fit mattered just as much as weight and balance. The dagger needed to have enough heft, but also fit well enough to handle appropriately. Tierielle knew her blades. Analindë moved off toward the case as Erulissé began to explain what type of blade she needed.

Analindë crouched down to study the row of daggers. Did she really want to carry a pair? Master Therin had mentioned that one day she should learn how to use them and carry them always, but she didn’t know if she wanted to have a pair of daggers constantly strapped to her thigh, tied up under her sleeves, or buckled around her waist. Maybe she should simply get a sword and be done with it. Wouldn’t it be more practical to learn a few offensive spells instead of constantly carrying a weapon? Was this why Master Therin vacillated between allowing her to pursue weapon’s work or not? The practicality of it all?

She picked up a pretty pair of daggers that looked to be about the right size and weight. She stood and began to test their balance and check them for flaws. She opened her senses fully and was distracted by the most beautiful song. Drawn to it, she closed her eyes, listening to what the melody had to say. It sang of whistling through the wind and dancing on air. It felt of lightness and joy, tempered with sorrow. It was pure and strong, vibrant in purpose and of strength of ages past.

Her eyes followed the melody upward; she set the forgotten daggers down and stared unblinking at the pair of
djari
mounted on the wall in front of her. They were compact travel staves built for a woman’s frame. The dark ebony handle was offset and reinforced by inlaid silver and grooving. She saw through the wood to the hidden, shining metal blades. They were stronger than anything she’d ever sensed. They were finely etched using glyphs she could not read. The language must be long forgotten for she didn’t recognize the pattern.

The
djari
were shielded.

Their origin, their intent, and their design were masked so well that she had a difficult time even holding on to the idea that they were hiding from her. Interesting that they sang out to her while hiding at the same time. Then she realized that they hid from everyone,
not
just her. The mask actively pushed against her mind, pointing her thoughts elsewhere. She didn’t mind and let them be pushed.

She saw the trigger button that would expand the short
djari
into a bladed staff as tall as she. The pair could also transform into dueling swords used singly or together, depending on the fighting technique or stance that was needed.

The song increased and it was all she could do to not reach up and pull the pair of
djari
from the wall. It would be impolite to handle the ancient weapons without Tierielle’s consent, so she forcefully discarded the impulse, tucked her hands behind her back, and let her mind drift with the song.

The melody became louder, clearer. A counterpoint began to dance with the rushing of air, but it consisted not of notes in the traditional sense, but of the sounds of actions past. It was the hot ripple of muscle. Flexing in practice drills well known. It was footsteps. Marching in synch. Stealthy treads and hops. Gliding movement, patterns, the shush of clothing as arms brushed a torso, as legs moved a body forward. A rhythm formed and she recognized the cadence. The beats matched perfectly with the Warrior’s Dance of the Morning. The drills she’d watched Riian practice several times a day the lone summer he’d briefly decided to become Sword Sworn.