Sister of the Sword

by Paul B. Thompson

  The crowd seemed reluctant to leave. Lyopi begged them to go home, though, and they slowly dispersed. Samtu took Lyopi, who was swaying on her feet, inside the house, and Pakito sent Bahco to post guards around the elves, to keep things calm. Finally, only the giant and his chieftain remained.

  Karada picked up a torch left behind by a villager and trudged away, not toward the north baffle and her own camp, but west. Pakito would’ve followed, but she put a stop to that.

  “Go back to Samtu, Pakito. Help her comfort Lyopi. I’m going to wait for Duranix.”

  *

  Dawn was not far off when Duranix crossed the last line of mountains before the Valley of the Falls. It was the still time, when most animals were asleep. Even so, the valley felt charged as he flew into it, replete with powerful emotions.

  He crossed the dull silver triangle of the lake, heading for the village. Before the walls gained distinction from the dark cliffs behind them, Duranix saw a pinpoint of light on the stony beach between the town wall and his cave. Lowering a wing, he descended toward the light, which quickly resolved itself into a burning torch.

  He landed. A solitary figure stirred beside the torch.

  “Karada,” he said, keeping his great voice low.

  “Dragon,” she greeted him. “He’s dead.”

  “I know.” He asked how it happened. Karada explained about Mara. By the time she finished the story of bronze and bows, Duranix was practically speechless with astonishment.

  Finding his tongue at last, he exclaimed, “After all we’ve faced – yevi, raiders, green-painted assassins, wild humans, elves, Sthenn! – Amero is murdered by a crazy child with a bronze dagger? Over some bits of metal and bent wood sticks?” He raised one hind claw and drove it down again. The resulting blow rang through the valley. “Where is the justice in that?” he demanded.

  “There is none. Good-bye, dragon.”

  She turned away There was a strange note of finality in her voice that penetrated the dragon’s preoccupation.

  “You aren’t leading your band out now, in the middle of the night, are you?” he asked.

  “I’m not leading them anywhere.”

  Without warning, Duranix promptly shrank to human form and size, becoming a muscular man with golden yellow hair, clad in a deerskin kilt. He hadn’t assumed human guise in a long time, but it seemed appropriate just now.

  Long ago, during her first visit to Yala-tene, Karada had seen Duranix both take on human shape and revert to dragon form. It was a remarkable thing to witness the enormous bronze beast compress himself into a human body, no matter how unusually tall and sturdy it was.

  Taking her by the shoulders, Duranix gave her a shake. “What do you mean?” he asked. Then, his golden eyes widening, he added, “You are thinking of ending your life, aren’t you? You mustn’t do that!”

  She pulled away from his hands. “You don’t understand. I’m already dead. My life was tied to Amero’s by more than bonds of kinship. Do you know I felt his death wound?” She put a hand to her side. “It was here, as if I’d taken the dagger thrust myself. I felt his death like an icy wave of water closing over my head. That’s how close Amero and I were!”

  “Foolish woman! I felt it too! It woke me from a deep sleep. We who loved Amero were linked to him in spirit, not by mere bonds of friendship, blood, or desire. Just because you despair doesn’t mean your life is over or that it isn’t valued by others.”

  “I can’t live, knowing he’s gone,” she declared helplessly.

  “And if you kill yourself, what will that accomplish? Your spirit will still not be at rest. More importantly, what will become of your people? Who will lead them?”

  “Pakito... Samtu... Bahco...”

  “Will they be able to stand up to the Silvanesti? Can any of them hold your band together in the face of privation and defeat, as you have?” When she didn’t answer, Duranix glared at her, eyes flashing. “So you’re not content to take your own life, you’re willing to condemn your followers to defeat and slavery, too. What a selfish end! Is that how the Scarred One will be remembered – too weak to survive one blow, one death?”

  His words kindled a spark in her at last. She took a step toward him. Duranix returned her angry gaze.

  “I am not weak,” she said, memories of all she had survived – the deaths of her parents, capture by Silvanesti soldiers, deprivation, loneliness – flashing through her mind.

  “Prove it then. Survive. Live as long and as well as you can! You honor your people and Amero’s memory by doing so.”

  Karada closed her eyes tightly, swaying a little. When she opened them again she said, “What about you, dragon? What will you do?”

  He looked at the walls of Yala-tene. “I don’t know. I’m sick of this place, sick of all the violent, smelly humans who infest my peaceful valley. For Amero’s sake, I can’t knock the village down and chase everyone away, so perhaps I’ll leave.” A memory of another place came to his mind. “Yes, I’ll go somewhere far away.”

  She rubbed a hand over her red-rimmed eyes. “My band was leaving tomorrow. I’ll have to put off our departure until we’ve settled some things – the elves, the girl Mara.”

  “Cut her throat and be done with it.”

  “It isn’t that simple. There’s likely to be sympathy for her, once the story of the hidden bows gets around.” She inhaled deeply. “And there’s Zannian.”

  “What has he to do with anything?”

  “He lives because Amero wanted him to live. Amero believed he could teach our brother to be a peaceful man. I never shared his confidence in Zannian’s ability to change, and I’m not so forgiving of the raiders’ crimes.” She frowned. “But he is my brother, too. And now, my responsibility.”

  Still in human form, Duranix went with her to Lyopi’s house and there viewed Amero’s body. With his gray-flecked beard, the man he’d become hardly resembled the inquisitive youth Duranix had plucked from a tree and saved from the yevi all those years ago.

  What an evanescent thing is human life, the dragon thought. Was it the brevity of their existence that made them feel so vulnerable, fearful, and violent?

  It was a question Amero would have enjoyed discussing with Duranix. No one present could do it justice, so the dragon kept his thought to himself.

  *

  Karada called a great council of her hand and the people of Yala-tene. The resulting crowd was so large they had to assemble on open ground west of the wall, near the hill where Amero’s friend and foundry master, Huru, had fought the raiders and died defending his village.

  With everyone present except the Silvanesti and those nomads appointed to guard them, over sixteen hundred people were gathered to hear Karada, Lyopi, and the elders speak. The first matter addressed was how to honor Amero. The village elders suggested an elaborate funeral pyre, either on the valley floor or, as Jenla suggested, on the old Offertory in the village. Jenla’s idea was on the verge of being approved when Duranix arrived, still in his fair-haired human shape. He was taller than anyone present, topping even Pakito by a handspan, and caused a stir when he appeared.

  After obtaining Lyopi’s permission to join the discussion, the dragon-man spoke against the use of the old Offertory. With its reminders of the Sensarku’s strange antics, he said this would not be a location that would please Amero.

  Lyopi asked what he would suggest.

  “Before the cave-in of the storage tunnels many years ago, you humans usually buried your dead,” Duranix replied. “I think Amero should be put in a special place in the mountains, sealed forever inside. Then there will always be a place you can come and be near him.”

  Karada asked if he had a place in mind.

  “My cave.”

  This took the humans aback. Tepa spoke for all when he asked, “If the Arkuden is sealed in your cave, where will you be?”

  “Far away,” said the dragon. “Once Amero is put to rest, I am leaving the Valley of the Falls forever.”

 
; Consternation erupted. Villagers rose to their feet and cried out against this idea. Who would protect them if both Amero and the dragon were gone? Duranix listened implacably, unmoved by their fears.

  Karada called roughly for silence. The anxious villagers gradually settled down.

  Duranix said, not unkindly, “My friendship was with Amero. Though I think well of some of you, I’ve realized I can’t stay here any longer, minding your small affairs and defending you from your own vicious brethren. I’ve been too much with humanity these past thirty years. It’s time for me to go, to find and coexist with those of my own kind.”

  They continued to plead with him; wondering plaintively how they would survive without their protector.

  “How did you survive before you came here?” he asked vexedly.

  “We wandered,” Jenla said. “But we can’t go back to those ways. Some of us are too old, and the younger ones know no other life than this.”

  “Then we’ll stay here,” Tepa said stoutly, grasping her hand. “The soil is fertile, the hunting is good, and the Arkuden’s wall is high.” He looked to Karada. “And we have friends, if we need them, yes?”

  The nomad chieftain nodded curtly, and the villagers’ anxiety was slowly replaced by hope.

  It was agreed Amero would be placed in the great cave behind the waterfall. Duranix would seal all the entrances. The burial would take place before sundown that very day.

  Some of the crowd had begun to move away, but Karada’s loud voice halted them, reminding them there were other matters to settle.

  “First, the murderer of Amero must be punished,” she announced.

  Adjat the potter, a distant kinsman to Mara, rose. “The girl has lost her wits,” he said bluntly. “She’s mad with fear and hatred of the Silvanesti.”

  “So? Are we just to forget what she has done?”

  Intimidated, Adjat replied, “Of course not. It just seems... wrong to condemn the feeble-minded.”

  “Seems perfectly right to me,” Karada said. “Murder should be repaid with death. That is the way of the plains.”

  “This is not the plains, great chief,” Hulami the winemaker said.

  They argued fruitlessly a while, until Karada at last turned to Lyopi.

  “You were his woman,” said Amero’s sister. “What do you say?”

  “I’d gladly wring her neck,” Lyopi said, her voice tired but strong. Though Karada nodded sagely, the village elders looked appalled. Lyopi went on. “But I can’t. The wretched girl has known nothing but torment and fear since she left Yala-tene with Tiphan last winter. Maybe he’s the true author of this deed – abetted by Silvanesti taskmasters and her oppressive devotion to Karada.”

  It was obvious Karada wanted to speak, but having asked Lyopi her opinion, the nomad chieftain kept silent.

  Lyopi said, “I say exile her. Turn her loose on the open plain and let the spirits of the land and air decide her fate. That’s what our ancestors would have done.”

  This verdict won instant favor from the villagers in the crowd, who were sick of bloodshed. The elders quickly approved exile for Mara.

  Karada turned to Duranix in disgust. “Crazed as she is, she won’t last five days. Hunger, thirst, savage beasts... hers will be a slow, agonizing death,” she said. “Their ‘mercy’ is more cruel than my punishment!”

  “Not killing her outright salves their conscience,” Duranix said darkly. “That’s what matters most to them.”

  One last important decision remained.

  “The man called Zannian, as everyone now knows, is my youngest brother, Menni,” Karada told the crowd. “Blinded in battle, he will likely never recover his sight.

  It was Amero’s wish that Zannian remain in Yala-tene and he treated as his brother, not a defeated enemy. I don’t share this view. Zannian is a dangerous man, with no more honor in him than a hungry viper. Now that my brother is dead, Zannian should be dealt with like the snake he is.”

  Beramun, listening quietly beside Harak until now, stood up. Lyopi nodded for her to speak.

  “I suffered as much as anyone at Zannian’s hands. His men slew my family and enslaved me. He tried to take me by force, but I escaped. It sounds vain to say so, but I think he came to Yala-tene as much to recapture me as to conquer your village.”

  Beramun glanced at Harak, who smiled and gave her an encouraging nod.

  “I would gladly see him dead,” she continued, “but I think the only one who can rightly pass judgment on him is Karada. He’s her kin. Let her do with him what she thinks best.” Beramun sat down.

  Karada looked enormously pleased.

  Factions aligned themselves in completely different ways from when they’d debated Mara’s fate. The younger people of Yala-tene favored sparing Zannian, while the elders wanted him put to death. Hulami suggested exile for Zannian as well, but in his sightless state, nobody felt comfortable with that idea.

  Lyopi stood up to speak. The crowd slowly quieted to hear her words.

  “Much as I respect Karada and Beramun, I have to disagree with them,” she said. “Zannian should remain in Yala-tene.”

  Karada opened her mouth to object, but the stalwart Lyopi pressed on.

  “I don’t believe, as Amero did, that Zannian can be changed. As a vine is trained to a wall, so does it grow, and this raider chief was trained by a hate-filled woman and a black-hearted dragon. He’ll never be as kind as his brother or as noble as his sister.

  “So let Zannian stay here,” she declared. “Let him live out his life as a prisoner of the people he sought to enslave. Let him live on our charity! Our pity will be a more bitter punishment than swift death would be.”

  Her words, forcefully delivered, carried the day. As the conclave broke up, Karada sought out Beramun and embraced her.

  “You are the daughter I need,” said the nomad chief. “Will you have me as your mother?”

  Beramun blushed. “I’m gaining a mate and a mother in backward order! What do you say, Harak?”

  Scratching his chin, he said. “If Karada can live with me, I can live with Karada.”

  “You’re too clever, Wanderer,” Karada told him. “But if my daughter loves you, you have my tolerance.”

  “And your trust?”

  “That you must earn.”

  *

  Wrists tied behind her, Mara was blindfolded and thrown over a horse. Six nomads and four villagers escorted her. They rode west out of Yala-tene at sundown. Samtu and Hekani led the group upriver, then onto the open plain. Night was well underway when they stopped.

  Samtu dismounted, pulling Mara off the horse. She cut the girl’s bonds and removed her doeskin blindfold. Trembling, Mara fell at Samtu’s feet.

  “Don’t kill me!” she begged. “I did it to save us all from the Silvanesti!” She looked around at the other riders, eyes roving desperately in search of a sympathetic face. She found none. “Where is Karada? Let me speak to her. If she hears me, she’ll understand!”

  Samtu was disgusted. According to Pakito, Karada’s last words to the girl had been a vow to kill her.

  “The day you see Karada again will be the day you die,” she said. She gave the girl a single goatskin bag of water, a flint knife, and a pouch of dried fruit and elk jerky.

  “Here’s food and water for four days,” Samtu continued. “You are exiled, Mara, daughter of Seteth and Evanna. If you ever return to Arku-peli or Karada’s band, you’ll be killed on sight. Now go!”

  Peering fearfully over her shoulder, the girl moved away. At first she walked slowly, then picked up speed, and finally broke into a run. The last they saw of Mara, she was racing through the widely spaced pines, the fading twilight making her appear ghostlike and insubstantial. She was heading for the great savanna.

  Hekani turned his horse around. “How long will she last?” he wondered.

  “No way to tell,” said Samtu. “If she’s resourceful – and lucky – she might live a long time.”

  “Do you believe tha
t?”

  The stout nomad woman thumped her heels against her horse’s ribs, starting the animal for home. “It no longer matters,” she said bluntly.

  *

  On the cliffs overlooking the village, Karada stood with Duranix, now restored to dragon form.

  “Can you find her?” Karada asked him, her eyes sweeping the dark, distant countryside.

  “Yes. Are you at peace with your decision?”

  She gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Peace? I’ve never known it and never will.”

  Duranix thought this the truest thing she’d ever said. He’d never known a thinking creature less suited to tranquillity.

  Rather than leaping into the air, Duranix fell forward off the cliff edge. Spreading his wings, he flew off to complete his final pact with the sister of his first and only human friend.

  *

  Zannian entered Yala-tene with a rope around his neck. This was as much to guide him as it was to restrain him. Bahco was leading him from horseback. The nomad was met by Lyopi and Beramun, and he handed the halter to Lyopi. Bidding the women good-bye, Bahco galloped away.

  “So I’m in Arku-peli at last,” Zannian said. “I wish I could see it.”

  Lyopi tugged on the braided rawhide rope to get his attention. “I’m Lyopi,” she said, “mate of Amero, your brother, once headman of the village.”

  “Ah, yes. Mated for a day, weren’t you? Or was it less?”

  Lyopi made a fist, but she only said, “Beramun is here, too.”

  The name drove the smirk from Zannian’s face. He put out a hand. Beramun stepped aside to avoid it.

  “I was hoping you would come,” he said, turning his head toward the crunch of her footstep.

  “I leave with Karada tomorrow. Say what you want, then I’ll be going.”

  “Out here? In broad daylight?”

  “It’s night, and no one’s about,” Lyopi answered.

  “Strange. When I heard Beramun’s voice, I thought it was a bright and sunny day.”

  Lyopi gave the younger woman a sympathetic, inquiring look. Beramun shook her head, indicating his words held no pain for her. She held out a hand for the rope. Lyopi handed it to her, moved off a few paces, and sat down at the foot of one of the ramps leading up the inside of the wall.