Right. They’d better hurry. Darkness would fall before the fire burned down, at the rate he was moving.
“Get the bag away from here. You’ll need it to get the swords home. I’m going to start the fire.”
She tossed the canvas bag to the edge of the clearing and flopped down on the pile of dry leaves at one corner of the pit. Her hand reached toward the sword, but jerked back before she touched it.
He shook his head at the leaves flying around the pit. He really should have cleared away that last pile of leaves, too, when he’d realized he didn’t need them for tinder. But he’d scoured the rest of the clearing, so there was no danger the little pile could cause any trouble.
If he’d forgotten anything else, it was too late to worry about it. Viper trotted back to the boulder and pulled a small packet from his coat pocket. He returned to sit beside her and produced a match with a theatrical flair.
Lorel rolled her eyes. “Get on with it, already.”
“You don’t know how hard I worked to get these. Trevor actually hid them. All right, don’t hit me, I’m starting.” He lit the match with his thumbnail and dropped it into a vent.
They both leaned forward and waited for the tinder to catch fire.
The match went out.
He lit a second match and dropped it in. This match went out before it touched the leaves at the bottom of the pit.
“Maybe you should’ve learned a fire spell from Trevor.”
“I’d have to explain why I wanted it. I hate explaining things to him.” As if Trevor would teach him any magic. As if Lorel wanted to see any sort of magic. Though in this case, she might.
He dropped a third match into the vent. It smoldered briefly, and died.
“Blast.” Now he remembered what was bothering him. He should have left a space big enough to crouch in so he could get the match directly in contact with the leaves and shredded twigs he’d used as tinder. He’d completely forgotten about it when his staircase melted into sand.
But maybe failure was his punishment for trying to light the dedication fire with matches. In all the ceremonies he’d attended the bone carver had lit the pyre, and he’d never been close enough to see how. The old man insisted it wasn’t magic, but matches were so rare on the plains they rated alongside dragons and volcanoes – as hero tales, not reality.
Lorel whacked an armload of leaves into the pit. “Thread-snipping matches. How many you got left?”
“One.”
“We better think of something else.” She checked the position of the sun. “And soon.”
“Right.” Viper grabbed a handful of the dry leaves they were using as a cushion. “Let’s try lighting a bunch of leaves and dropping them in.”
“Now you’re thinking.” Lorel swatted him on the back and nearly knocked him into the hole.
He scooped together a tiny mound of leaves and twigs, and lit it with the last match. Carefully feeding more fuel to his pile as he went, he dropped burning leaves into as many air vents as he could reach.
Nothing happened.
He dropped more flaming leaves into other openings and waited for the pyre to light.
And waited. His tiny campfire burned out.
Silence.
Lorel aimed her face at the sky and wailed like a lost coyote. “It’ll never catch fire!” She arched forward and pounded her forehead in the dirt. “We’ll sit here forever, and our threads will fray off the Loom. You and your dumb ideas. You get me all excited then you– you–”
Viper slouched and turned his face away. He’d failed her. He’d ruined all of her dreams. She’d never trust him again. He wasn’t worthy of anybody’s trust.
He stared into the pile of wood and imagined little wisps of smoke were rising into the cool air. He wished for fire, just a tiny flame, just enough to spark the tinder. The whispered crackling deep in the pit was small consolation compared to the wild bonfire he’d planned. A little noise and a little heat were not going to be enough for a Dedication Ceremony…
Heat? Crackle?
“Get back!” He tried to shove Lorel away from the pit. He’d had more luck moving a bahtdor cow when he was a five-year-old herder. “Run!”
Fire soared into the air. The pyre roared. Flames danced far above their heads, smoke billowed into the air. Fire scorched his ankle, heat flashed up his side, lifting his hair with its own wind.
Lorel rolled to her feet, tossed him over her shoulder, and sprinted away from the fire.
The point of her shoulder hammered his gut with every step. His neck jolted, rattling his wits but giving him intermittent glimpses of the pit.
Fire consumed the leaves they’d used as cushions. Flames writhed higher, wider. Red and orange and blue swirled together, reaching for the treetops, reaching for the moons. Heat burst across the clearing in a wild surge.
He’d created all that?
The bonfire roared defiant victory, and rumbled vehement disappointment over the escape of its prey. He sensed its desire to chase them, capture them. Devour them.
Lorel dashed behind a boulder at the edge of the clearing, crouched, and dumped him on his back on a mound of sharp gravel. “Weaver’s blood! What happened?”
Breath wouldn’t enter his lungs. He thrashed on the jagged rocks, gasping like a bluegill tossed onto the sand.
“Well?” Her fingers clamped on his shoulder and shook him so hard his teeth rattled. “What happened?”
Air whistled into his chest. Sparks danced before his eyes. From the fire? No, from his flustered wits. The turybird shoved him into a sinkhole so often he ought to be used to it. At least he could breathe again.
After several deep breaths, he sat up and brushed at his singed pant leg. His ankle stung, but less than the gravel that felt embedded in his back.
She poked him again. “Well?”
What was he supposed to say? “A demon lived in that last match.” She’d never believe the truth: he’d have been less surprised if a real demon had lit the pyre.
Lorel snorted. “Nice of it to come out.”
The fire roared in agreement. Viper threw back his head and chanted thundering victory in reply.
Lorel covered her ears and cringed melodramatically. His singing wasn’t that bad.
But the vitality of this ceremony exhilarated him. And stunned him. He’d never seen the flames roar up so high and so fast. Once they finally got started.
Did the delay predict a flaw in the weapons? Had he done something wrong? Or did they merely know their dedicated warrior was untried?
Blast. Not merely untried, completely untrained. He wished the turybird luck in finding a teacher. She’d need it.
˜™
Lorel shielded her eyes with one hand as she peered around the rock. Weaver’s blood, that fire put out a lot of heat. Flames leaped and swirled like a street dancer teasing a sailor. A whole army of dancers. “Um, kid? How’re we gonna put it out?”
He leaned against the boulder and grinned at the miswoven fire. “We don’t. With any luck, it will stay put until it burns out.”
Had the kid slipped a stitch? Nobody counted on fire staying put.
“Don’t look at me like that. I cleared away everything flammable except the leaves we were sitting on. It can’t burn farther than that.”
“You hope. We could burn the whole forest down.”
“Only if sparks hit dry brush. Don’t be such a worry wart.”
A what? Weaver’s cold toes. The kid said the strangest things.
Sparks didn’t fly far, but the flames sure tried to reach the treetops. Weird how tall the wood burned, and how long. Weird how the kid sat and stared at the fire like it was his long lost girlfriend. Drooling, almost.
Of course, she’d like to go do some drooling of her own. “When can I go check on my swords?”
The kid didn’t even look at her. “Not until the fire burns out.”
She stood and stretched. Nobody could sit still forever.
Except maybe
the kid. “Stay back until it’s down to ash.” This time he did look at her. “If you try to touch them, they’ll burn your hand off.”
“Off?”
“I watched it happen once.” He turned back to the fire with that drippy look on his face, but maybe he looked a little scared, too.
“Really? What happened to him?” Only a guy would be stupid enough to grab something that close to a fire without testing it.
He turned all the way around and blinked up at her. “He fed himself to the bahtdor. What else could he do when he’d dishonored himself so badly?”
He did what? Fed himself to a monster? That made no fraying sense. The kid was having her on again. Probably trying to shut her up.
Have it his way. Lorel settled onto the ground and watched the fire burn.
The shadows were way too long by the time the coals stopped glowing. It was practically dark. Finding the trail back to Trader’s Inn wouldn’t be no fun at all. Getting home from there wouldn’t be bad, but Mom would scold again. Mom hated her to get home late. And her brothers –
Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave. Her brothers would rat on her. Dad wouldn’t give her another day off, ever. Unless the noodle-brained customer was still there, keeping the lot of them busy.
She never had that much luck. Her thread was so snipped.
The kid finally stood up and sauntered to the fire pit. He walked all the way around it before looking back at her. “Did you bring a cleaning cloth?”
A what? Oh, for the swords. She strolled over to the pit, trying to look casual. Enough heat radiated from the coals to remind her to keep her distance.
All of the weapons were covered with black ash. Weird, since they’d only been at the edge of the fire, not in it. “I’ll use my cloak.”
“Your mother will strangle you.”
That was probably true. No, for certain true.
The kid grinned, trotted off to where she’d tossed the bag, and pulled a hunk of ratty blue flannel out of it. She’d have sworn the bag was empty.
He ripped off one end and handed the larger portion to her. “You’ll need the rest of them to wrap the blades in until you make scabbards.”
“The rest of what?”
He looked at her like she’d fallen off the Shuttle. “The rags. In the sack. The padding for the swords so you don’t cut your arm off carrying them through the streets.”
Oh. That was why nothing rattled when she toted the bag around. She never would’ve given the kid credit for thinking of that.
He rolled his eyes like he knew what she was thinking. He just might, at that.
She knelt next to the long sword and held one hand an inch over the hilt. Heat caressed her palm, but didn’t threaten to burn her. Moving cautiously, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt.
Ecstasy stabbed up her arm, down her shoulder into her gut. Lorel threw her head back and fought to breathe. She drew the sword close to her chest and hugged it.
Something held the blade away from her nose. A blue rag? “Don’t cut yourself.” The kid sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
Her eyes snapped open. If he laughed at her she’d– she’d–
He nodded, his eyes shining. With tears? With pride? Maybe she wouldn’t abandon him out here, after all.
“I’d forgotten how powerful a strong connection could be.” He released the sword and swished the rag up the blade. “Wipe the soot off before it’s too dark to see.”
“Right.” She wanted to cuss at him, but couldn’t say anything else. She barely scraped air into her lungs. Was this what it felt like to fall in love?
Or was it only one of the kid’s tricks? “Did you magic me?”
He shook his head as he knelt at the foot of the pit. “It’s not magic, it’s bahtdor bone and the Dedication Ceremony. That’s why Setoyan swords are so highly prized, even old ones. The Cantor said the blades are almost alive.”
A living sword? No matter what the kid called it, that was magic. She glared at the weapon in her hand. Did she really want to mess with magic?
It balanced in her hand like it was part of her. It weighed less than the chunk of oak she used for practice. When she twisted her wrist, the blade swished through the air like it couldn’t wait to see real action.
Maybe it wasn’t magic. Maybe the kid was as good at carving as he’d bragged.
She ran the rag down its length, polishing off black ash. Golden bone shined like fire in the sunset. Little marks glittered all down the blade, tiny writing she couldn’t read. Had the kid carved all that? She’d swear they weren’t there when he put them next to the pit.
“Two more to go.” The kid looked up from polishing his fork thingies. They did look sort of dangerous. Sharp on the edges, but dull at the points. Too fraying weird. “Wake up, turybird. You still have two more to clean.”
She felt a grin stretch her face. Three weapons. Real weapons. And they were hers alone.
If nobody caught her with them. The guard would steal them for sure, if they ever saw them.
She hated to rush, but she quickly cleaned the long sword and laid it on top of the kid’s bag. It actually hurt to leave it behind, but she walked around the pit and bent to pick up the short sword.
Fire spread up her arm, engulfed her chest. “Bitter blood!” The flesh on her hand charred, flaked away.
“Lorel?”
Just like the kid said. Her hand was gone. Burnt off. She’d never wield a sword. Ever.
“Lorel?”
Loom bust a Thread. No way she’d give up that easy. No monster was gonna eat her just because she’d lost one hand. She’d learn to use her sword left handed if it took her a lifetime. Both swords. She’d never give this sword up.
“Lorel! Shift it to your left hand! Your other hand! Can you hear me?”
She forced her eyes to open against the heat scorching her face. The kid knelt in front of her, not touching her. Not touching the sword.
The sword in her hand. She still had a hand. She felt her eyes widen.
The kid nodded, a warped grin on his face. “Shift the sword to your left hand.”
He’d said that before. A whole bunch of times.
She raised her left hand and pried the hilt free of her cramped fingers.
Pain eased immediately, followed by cool air in her right hand and vibrating strength in her left. Power echoed through her body, and with it a conviction she had a destiny to follow.
But where? What destiny?
She raised the sword higher.
The kid skittered backward like he was afraid she’d chop him with it.
She narrowed her eyes. “Were you supposed to tell me something? Before I touched it?”
Even in the dim light, his face looked kinda green. He nodded. “I forgot you wouldn’t know.”
Wouldn’t know. Probably every barbarian old enough to walk would know. “So I gotta make sure I always hold the short sword in my left hand?”
“No, only the first time.” Color seeped back into his face. “But normally it will be in your left hand, as a shield.”
“What, I’m supposed to use both at once?”
The kid hesitated, but nodded again.
Shuttle and Loom. She’d never seen nobody use two swords at the same time. Not even the guards’ weapons master.
Actually, that had possibilities. Not too many people could do it. She’d be a really special kind of warrior. If she figured out how to swing both around without chopping off her own leg.
The kid jerked his chin at the Monitor rising above the treetops.
“I know, it’s getting late.” Weaver’s chamberpot, her father was gonna ground her forever.
She wiped the rag over each side of the short sword. She wished she could see it better, but she had to wait until tomorrow to admire it. And to clean it more, since she couldn’t tell ash from darkness at this point.
After laying the blade next to the long sword, she strolled to the head of the pit and reached for the
knife.
The kid cleared his throat.
She froze and glared at him. “You remembered something else you forgot to tell me?”
“Only a legend.”
“Well? We ain’t got all night.”
He cleared his throat again and squirmed. “I don’t know if it’s true.”
“Kid.” She straightened and sucked in a deep breath. No point in making him jumpy. He’d go and take longer to get his nerve up. And if she smacked him, he might not talk to her at all. “I don’t care if it’s true. Just tell me.”
“They say if you grab a dedicated knife the first time with both hands, the bond will be tighter. Between you and all three blades.”
There he went again, talking magic stuff.
She paused to think about it. Magic was tricksy. Cheating. Did she even want weapons that had magic on them?
No way her swords were magicked. The kid didn’t know any magic, he’d told her that enough times. It was all his imagination.
But it wouldn’t hurt to make him happy. She dropped to her knees and wrapped both hands around the knife’s hilt.
Life flowed up her left hand. Death stabbed down her right. Choices swirled around her like fireflies. Eagles. Dragons. Bigger and bigger until she thought her head would explode. Her whole body would explode.
And suddenly she was just a thirteen-year-old girl kneeling in ash, with a gritty knife in her hands.
She blinked, and saw the kid’s face in the moonlight.
He smiled, though it looked like he wanted to cry. He had to swallow twice before he could talk. “It’s full dark.”
What had he seen? Why was he sad? Or was it joy she saw in his eyes?
“Can you find your way back to town by moonlight?” The kid jerked his chin toward the Monitor. Which was way too high in the sky. And the Coward had risen, too. She was so screwed.
“Of course I can.” What happened once she got home, she didn’t want to think about.
The kid nodded and tossed her a rag. “I wrapped your swords and put them in the sack.”
Miswoven pushy kid. Sure, he had saved her a few minutes. But she hated him messing with her swords.
She snorted at herself. He’d made those swords. It wasn’t like he’d never touched them before. She wrapped the knife in the rag and shoved it to the bottom of the sack.
Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1) Page 14
