The Golden Sword (5 page)

I turned the game’s fall in my mind. I wished I had been there to see the play. Chayin’s next throw would have designated the pieces to be used, as well as showing the result of surrendering the woman from the prime mover’s square to the ebvrasea of overriding purpose. Then the pieces would have been assigned, placed on the board, and the dice cast. And cast, and cast. And through the dice and the pieces and the two players’ abilities would have come the probabilities inherent in the approaching time. One, eventually, would win, capturing the other’s pieces. How this win was accomplished, and upon what squares the drama unfolded, would greatly influence how the cahndor and the Day-Keeper pursued their goal. The power of yris-tera is very great. Sometimes I have wondered whether it is not too great, whether the game does not condition the time, rather then predict it.

I sighed to myself. The first two throws had seemed to speak directly to me. Hael had hinted that he, too, saw me upon the board. I could make no sense of the mid-level, nor why the Day-Keeper had chosen to move the woman there.

“Enough, crell! There will be nothing to eat but bones.”

I opened my eyes and regarded the jiask. I climbed dripping upon the bank, my copper skin gleaming in the bright sun. The slightly abrasive plant fibers had buffed me silken smooth. I ran my hands over my flat belly, sluicing the drops from me. I split my sopping mass of thigh-length hair and brought the halves forward upon my breasts. Running my fingers through the snarls, I remembered that upon Mi’ysten I had learned a better way. I raised my hands to the crown of my head and did as the Shaper woman had taught me, bringing my hands slowly down, fingers spread. My scalp tingled, the strands crackled, and my hair lay without knot or tangle upon my breasts. So I had brought at least one Mi’ysten skill back with me. Not all of what had been learned beyond time and space could be used within it. But if one skill could be brought to bear, so might some others. Shaping—creating from the molecules free in the air what one desires—had eluded me in the desert. I thought I might try again, when I had the chance.

The jiask’s eyes were upon me. He was staring. “It is amazing,” he said, “what a little puiia and water will do.”

I smiled at him, boldly meeting his eyes.

“Your cahndor awaits you, crell,” he growled, his eyes on my chald.

“And his brother, does he too await me?” I queried, as he took my arm and led me back through the tyla palms, toward the appreis. “Are they truly brothers?”

“Dharener Hael? He is also the son of Inekte, by the same rendi woman, Tasphersi, who was, a Nemarchan until Inekte died.” He stepped over the dead tyla trunk that lay fallen across the path. I followed suit, and gasped as I trod a sharp stone.

“Who is Nemarchan now?” I asked, limping as we cross
_,
the clearing to the fire, burning low, untended. The other jiasks had already retired to the shade of the appreis. They had left a joint of meat and half-full pot of binnirin, boiled until the grains had dissolved into a brown starchy mass. Beside the joint, cooled so that the fat and blood had congealed upon its charred surface, lay a quarter-filled bladder.

“Can you not wait to find out? Liuma Sataeje aniet Erastur reigns over the tiasks, over the time and the life, at the side of Chayin rendi Inekte, chosen son of Tar-Kesa.” He intoned the ritual with more than a little fervor. Tar-Kesa, ancient god of the gristasha, still held power in the desert. If Liuma reigned over the time and life, then she was forereader. Chayin had a formidable court, with his blood brother the dharener, first among the Day-Keepers of the Nemarsi, and his couch-mate Nemarchan and forereader. With the three elements in accord, the Nemarsi might be wielded like a single razor-sharp sword in the hand of the cahndor. I knew the ritual of Tar-Kesa, and if Chayin had become his chosen son, he had undergone its testing: arduous, but worth the pain and risk to a man who would become a flesh-god, a living legend, above reproach and question. Dorkat, indeed, was Chayin, who loved power so much that he had laid his life down as wager upon the altar of Tar-Kesa.

I picked, at the charred meat, at the mass of binnirin in the pot. The jiask gulped his food so fast he must have swallowed each bite whole. He drank long from the bladder. The sun beat down hot upon my back. When he surrendered the drink to me, I found it to be brin, headless and flat, but welcome. The intoxicant eased my mind, lightened my heart. I drank more. I was not hungry, I decided, but only thirsty. I was conscious of the apprei, looming behind my back. Its cool shade did not entice me. I had almost managed to forget why the cahndor had allowed me to wash and feed.

Marshon the jiask got to his feet and wiped his greasy hands upon his thighs. He tugged at my hair. Reluctantly I rose. He unlaced the flap and held it open for me. I saw that my plight amused him. All within the apprei looked green and indistinct. I stood for a moment, the urge to turn and run strong upon me, but there was nowhere to run. I stepped inside, and the flap fell back in place.

“As is often the case,” Chayin said from somewhere before me, “Hael was right. When that chald is cut from you, you will be very lovely. Lace the flap.” I turned and did so, the laces and holes slowly detaching themselves from the grainy dark as my vision cleared and sharpened. When that afraid is cut from you, he had said.

“Do not take my chald from me.” I faced him, my back against the laced flap, my hands clenched behind me.

“Crells do not wear chalds. It lessens their beauty, their usefulness, their humility. It slows their adjustment. What
use
is a chald without meaning? Come here.”

I went to him, where he lounged with his back against the middle stanchion. I remembered, as I knelt before him, not to meet his gaze.

“Crells do not wear chalds,” he repeated, his hands taking up the hair over my breast and gently brushing it back, that he might see me better.

“Then I will remove it if you wish.” I would not have my chald defaced.

“Do so.” he commanded.

I put my hands to my chald, running the strands through my fingers. I found the juncture, took the tiny key from
_,
its housing, and fitted the key in the lock. The ends parted. I took my eighteen-strand chald in my palms and looked at it. I saw the silver chain with white interwoven, that of Well Astria. I saw the red, due for changing, of the chaldra of the mother. I saw the bronze of birthing, unfulfilled. I saw my chains of patronage; to the Day-Keepers and the Slayers and the gol-masters, I closed my fists in upon my platinum deep-reader’s chain, and that of Astria’s dependent city, Port Astrin. My eyes swam with tears. I could not see my clenched fists, but still I saw the strands of my chald. I saw the six brass mixed, of my schooling, and that of the singers of titrium and iron, and that of the musicians, of copper and bronze, and the green stra metal of the threx breeders, and the Well-Keepress’ chain, of white gold set with white-fire gems. That one had been mine when I was born. The others, I had spent three hundred and two years acquiring. What is a Silistran, without chaldra? I brought it to my lips and kissed it, and handed it to the cahndor of the Nemarsi. I had never before felt so exposed. I shook my head to bring my hair forward, that it might cover my nudity. It settled in a cloud around me, soft and sweet-smelling. I crossed my arms over my breasts.

His hand, which held my chald, was still outstretched to me.

“And the key, little crell.” This, also, I handed over to Chayin.

He fitted the key in the housing, laid the chald aside. He looked me over, long and slow, where I huddled shamed before him. I could feel the heat of my blood, racing to my skin.

“Such a position suits you,” he commented. “You might have been born crell.” I did not meet his gaze, nor answer him. I was crell. A crell does not raise her eyes to her cahndor.

The apprei was red-lit with the sun’s setting when I awakened. Chayin slept soundly. He had not removed the Shaper’s cloak, but wrapped it around his chest, though the day was fireside-hot. His alien chald glittered in the dim light. I could make nothing of it, but I must honor it. He was chalded; I was not. There were fourteen strands, of various metals, some with teeth and charms, tufts of hair and gems depending from them. It was loosely woven, more so even than the chalds of Arlet.

He had not used me as a wellwoman, but as an animal. If such was a crell’s couching, I wanted no more of it. He had forced upon me more of the stimulant drug Hael had given me in the desert, and my heart pounded against my ribs. He had made no attempt to sate my needs, and my heat burned within me. I lay upon my side, my loins pressing against his thigh of their own accord. I hated him. He slept. I could not. He had taken my chald from me, made me crell. In my mind, he was every man who had ever misused me. He became for me Raet, and Estrazi, and Dellin. Even Dellin, whom I once loved, at that moment I would have killed upon the spot. My breathing deepened, and my senses became sharp and clear. Through this man, I would teach them all a thing about women. I studied Chayin’s cloaked chest, rising and falling before my eyes. I would kill him. He, abuser of the helpless, cahndor of the chaldless, did not deserve to live. His breech and sword belt lay where he had thrown them, upon the mat, within easy reach. With his own sword I would skewer him, not only for myself, but for all the other helpless crells. I would plunge that undulating Parset blade into his heart. He would make no outcry, and then I would slip past the sleeping jiasks and steal a threx. The black one, Hael’s, the one called Quiris, would I take and ride northeast, into the Sabembes, to Arlet. There I would see for myself what had occurred, whose blood had been spilled in my name. I would find Sereth and do what was needed. And DeIlin, whom I once loved. Then I would go to Astria, and take up the Keepress-ship once more. I would need, I reminded myself, my chald, which lay in Chayin’s saddlepack under his head. I would be once more chalded and free.

I lay a long while considering my stroke. While I pondered, Chayin groaned in his sleep and turned, to lie on his stomach. The Shaper’s cloak, still fastened about his neck, was drawn tight around him. The spiral glittered upon it. Where the stones were thin, upon the western arm, would I strike. Between his ribs, into his heart would I thrust the recurved steel.

Stealthily, holding my breath, I rolled from his side and crawled to the sword belt he had so casually thrown upon the mat. Did he think that because I was crell and chaldless, I was bereft of will? Soundless, the blade slid from its sheath. The hilt was welcome in my hand. The blade was heavy, but of good balance. It was intricately chased, the hilt inlaid with titrium and gold. It was a cahndor’s weapon. By it would a cahndor die.

On my knees I crawled back to him, the blade held between my breasts. I crouched above him, not daring to breathe. My arms trembled. I had never killed a man before. This man, I reminded myself, badly needed killing. Both hands upon the hilt, I raised the blade above my head, and brought it down, my whole body behind my thrust. Between two jewels of the spiral, I aimed the point, and followed it down with all my weight and all my force.

When the blade struck the Shaper’s cloak, drawn tight around Chayin in his sleep, it shattered like ice. He was upon me; his hands imprisoned my wrists. He forced the jagged-bladed hilt from my grasp. Breathing hard, one knee at either side of my head, the shattered hilt now in his one hand, both my wrists crushed together in his other, he leaned close to me. His pupils were tiny points in his dark eyes, his lips mucus-sticky, his face beaded with sweat. His breath had the smell of fear about it.

“Crells do not raise arms to their cahndor,” he rasped. “This act of yours begs discipline. Shall I cut you here?” He brought the jagged hilt to my face, ran the edge across my cheek. His knees, upon my hair at either side of my head, gripped tightly. I could not turn my face. I struggled to free my wrists, but in one hand he held them, easily. His grip upon them tightened until I thought surely the bones would snap. I met his eyes, defiant. Chance had defeated me, ill luck attended my bid for freedom. It was not by his skill that he had triumphed.

“Kill me now, Chayin “ I suggested, “before I have another chance. It was the Shaper’s cloak that saved you. My next attempt will surely prove successful.”

He laughed, and ran the broken blade down my throat, across my breasts. Burning moistness followed its passage. I wished he would strike and be done with me.

“Chayin,” The voice was low and calm. It came from the direction of the apprei’s entrance. The cahndor turned his head, grunted, threw the hilt aside. He dragged me to my feet, twisting my arms cruelly. Leaning against the apprei wall was a figure. Next to it the unlaced flap blew in the first evening breeze. It was Raet. There was no mistaking that bronze glowing skin, that shimmer that surrounds a Mi’ysten. I shuddered. Chayin forced me down on my knees, facing the intruder. His free hand jerked my head back. I saw once more the figure by the door, and it was Hael who stood there, his arms folded across his chest, a smile flickering upon his beard-fringed lips.

“How long have you been there?” Chayin demanded.

“Long enough,” Hael answered.

“This crell tried to kill me in my sleep.” Chayin gave my head a savage shake.

“I saw.” The Day-Keeper moved to stand before us.

“You saw? And you did nothing? Brother, would you see me die?”

“I saw what the boards told me I would see. I saw the sword raised against you crumble, as did the bone sword when it struck the wood. As the pieces fell, so did it happen.” His voice was water upon the fire of Chayin’s fury. “What did you expect?” he continued. “That she would calmly submit to you? A Well-Keepress, designated prime mover, dosed with enough uris to keep jiask at the kill for a week? Did you expect her to sing you to sleep?”

The cahndor grunted. He dragged me through the litter to the middle stanchion and forced me to my knees before it. The uritheria upon his arm glared balefully at me as he bound my wrists before me to the pole. When his arm brushed my face, I sank my teeth into his bicep, into the uritheria’s fanged head. Chayin cursed and struck me away. My temple crashed against the stra metal stanchion. The lash upon my back was far away, as if it was another whose flesh was parted. I bit deep into my arm, that I would not give him more satisfaction by crying out and somewhere within me a thing gave way, and the pain mixed with passion and became something else. And that too was gone, and I was but a woman beaten by her master, and the pain was only pain, and I was content to lie passive and receive it. There was little blood.